


Cross-Guild Cooperation

by thelightofmorning



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ableism, Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Puns, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Claustrophobia, Corpses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Light-Hearted, Misogyny, Religious Conflict, Sex Work, Slavery, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 50
Words: 80,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26041390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Brynjolf wasn't expecting to be betrayed by his Guildmaster at Snow Veil Sanctum and rescued by a mage searching for alchemical ingredients. Taking sanctuary in the College of Winterhold, he makes the best of it by working with Laina Green-Fingers, who is just a little bit obsessed with dragons but otherwise a very attractive prospect for business... and other things. But when he starts being able to read Dragonish and a dragon pays a visit, he finds he's got a lot more than Mercer's betrayal of the Guild on his hands.Laina Green-Fingers knew the dragons were coming and that was why she left Bruma for the College of Winterhold. She didn't expect the handsome, roguish Brynjolf to have the soul of one. That makes their burgeoning relationship all the more interesting.With a little cross-Guild cooperation, Ancano, Alduin and Mercer Frey are about to have a very bad day...
Relationships: Brynjolf (Elder Scrolls)/Original Female Character(s), Camilla Valerius/Ghorbash the Iron Hand, Etienne Rarnis/Borgakh the Steel Heart, Isran (Elder Scrolls)/Original Character(s), Karliah/Original Male Character, Onmund/J'zargo, Quaranir (Elder Scrolls)/Original Character(s), Sevan Telendas/Faralda
Comments: 550
Kudos: 117





	1. After Snow Veil Sanctum

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, slavery, ableism, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, adultery, sex work, torture, child abandonment and child death. What’s this, another AU?

The wind from the Sea of Ghosts was bitterly cold as Laina scraped slaughterfish eggs from her fingers into the earthenware jar she reserved for them, swinging the alchemist’s satchel with its dozen compartments wildly on her shoulder. Seagrass pods, barnacles, pearls, ice wraith teeth… Collecting alchemical ingredients on Skyrim’s shores was a risky business when done alone, even for a woman who’d spent most of her life studying the arcane arts, but resources were meagre at the College of Winterhold. She’d thought Bruma’s Synodic chapterhouse lacked funds and materials. Then she came to the College and realised it could be worse somewhere else.

But her satchel was now full and so she struggled up the snowy hill, grateful beyond measure for the fur lining in her boots and the Nord heritage that granted her some immunity to the chill. A minor Alteration spell eased the worst of the icy wind, keeping her fingers flexible and warm, and she already knew that Snow Veil Sanctum’s sunken entrance would make for a useful overnight campsite because the mound blocked most of the snow. Pity she couldn’t Conjure up a warm bed like the guards claimed a mage could. Only the greatest sorcerers – of which she wasn’t – could manage such a feat.

Reaching the top of the mound, Laina gasped as she saw a tent there, next to which lay a half-frozen horse that had obviously been killed by the gash in its throat. A Dunmer, slight and little more than a shadow, was helping a bare-chested Nord redhead to sit up. His torso was wrapped in a crude bandage salvaged from tent canvas and even from her, she could tell the flush to his cheeks wasn’t from a naturally florid complexion. There was no way he could reach either Winterhold or Windhelm alive, not with the sign of wound-fever.

“Lay him back down!” she ordered crisply as she strode towards the camp. “You won’t be able to travel far with an infected wound.”

The womer reached for an elaborate ebony bow but the redhead caught her hand. “She’s a mage, lass,” he said weakly. “We both know I won’t make it without a potion.”

“You’ll need more than one,” Laina said, glancing at the ashen remains of a campfire and Conjuring ghost-fire as her granma had taught her. “Probably a healing spell or two as well.”

“And I suppose you’re offering this out of the goodness of your heart?” the womer asked sarcastically in a sweet, slumberous contralto.

“Given I recognise Thieves armour when I see it, I imagine you’ll have some kind of suitable loot with which to pay me,” Laina said dryly. “Soul gems, alchemical ingredients… I’ll even settle for some bone meal from the tomb next to us.”

“I know Enthir,” the womer said.

“A lot of dishonest people do. He’s the College’s requisitions officer, after all.” Laina shrugged off her satchel and knelt by the wounded Nord. Even with fever flushing his face and making his gaze too bright, he was a handsome specimen with a lithe build and just enough facial scarring to appear dashing. “It doesn’t mean he’ll cover the fee. He’s as stingy as he is crooked.”

The Nord laughed weakly, then clutched at his side. “Ah, lass, don’t make me laugh.”

Laina pulled off the crude bandage, wrinkling her nose at the stains on it, and glanced at the womer. “Get the pot from my satchel, fill it with snow and put it on the fire until the water’s boiling,” she ordered tersely. “This canvas is filthy, the wound is filthy, and there’s no point on using a spell or poultice until it’s clean.”

She reluctantly nodded and obeyed.

“I’d apologise for Karliah, but she’s had a rather bad twenty or so years,” said the Nord weakly. “She was betrayed by our Guildmaster… and he just tried to kill me in the tomb where he slew his predecessor Gallus.”

“Charming,” Laina observed. “If Corvus tried that shit in Bruma, he’d be strung up by the neck from Castle Bruma’s gates.”

“You’re familiar with the Guild, lass?”

“Only the Bruma branch. I had a friend in there who paid me extra for potions and poultices because the Synod’s stipend for a Journeymage with no political connections is little more than bed and board.” Laina reached into her satchel and pulled out a vial of ground imp stool, mudcrab chitin and skeever charcoal. “This potion is disgusting, but it will strengthen your body against infection, restore some of your strength and stamina, and purge any diseases you might have picked up.”

He popped the vial’s cork and downed its contents with a grimace. “Gah, lass, that’s no pleasure to drink.”

“No, but it’s the most powerful cure I can create.” As Karliah returned with the pot and some snow, she pulled out a handful of wheat and blue mountain flower for the poultice. “I hope you’re not a mage, because the poultice will strengthen your body but exhaust your magicka.”

“You can’t purify your cures?” asked Karliah in a professional tone as she put the pot of snow on the ghost-fire, its lurid purple flames bringing out the violet in her eyes.

“Not with just a mortar and pestle,” Laina told her. “I only know Healing Hands when it comes to tending others’ wounds, so your friend will need the blue mountain flower and wheat poultice to seal up his injury long enough to reach Winterhold. Gut wounds aren’t a joke.”

Karliah nodded. “I didn’t expect Mercer to bring Brynjolf along, so I had to make a split-second choice. My Paralysis poison stopped the bleeding long enough for me to get him outside after he was stabbed.”

Laina studied the second wound in Brynjolf’s shoulder. “Purple mountain flower, imp stool and canis root,” she noted.

“Indeed. If I’d been aware of the situation, I would have mixed my own potions beforehand.” Karliah checked the bubbling pot. “I think the water’s ready.”

Laina put some clean bandages in the boiling pot and briefly wet a clean rag in it. “This will hurt,” she warned as she used some magicka to change the water into saltwater. “Try to do the heroic Skyrim thing and don’t scream too loudly.”

Brynjolf cried out once when she cleansed the wound but by the time she was finished, her potion had already eased the wound-fever and most of the infection. Laina bound the poultice to the severest wound with clean bandages and then poured roughly half her remaining magicka into Healing Hands to get him up on his feet with support from Karliah.

“I need to go ahead,” the womer said with a grimace. “Mercer may anticipate our destination and I have to make sure he won’t be there to ambush us.”

Before Laina could protest, she’d taken her ebony bow and vanished into the shadows as if she’d been born to them.

“Fuck!” Laina cursed. It was going to be a long cold walk to Winterhold, all the harder because she had to support Brynjolf.

…

Brynjolf remembered little of the walk to Winterhold later, spending most of it half-conscious, in pain and clinging to the mage’s voice as she described Karliah’s sexual habits, pedigree, personal hygiene and probable descendants in terms both profane and obscene. If Mercer had been looking for them, as Karliah feared, he’d have been able to follow her swearing. But he was not and they reached Winterhold as dawn tinged the sky over Eastmarch a pale rose-gold.

The bed he woke up in was comfortable, covered with a patchwork fur blanket, and in a room that smelt of astringent herbs and glowed with radiant mage-lights. A scrawny, sour-faced Breton woman in drab grey robes was speaking in a slightly whiny, shrill tone to the compact black-haired woman who’d come across him and Karliah at Snow Veil Sanctum. “-You didn’t do too badly for someone who prefers to rely on alchemy instead of Restoration. If you threw yourself into studying the School like every mage ought to, you’d make for a half-decent healer.”

“Thanks,” said his saviour dryly. “I’ll remember that when you need magicka potions.”

“I didn’t mean it like _that_ ,” protested the Breton.

“Of course not.” She looked over the Breton’s head to where Brynjolf was slowly waking up. “I see our roguish friend is awake. I’ll have those potions ready for you by tomorrow morning.”

“Good. It’s rare to find a recipe that enhances Restoration that doesn’t involve poisoning yourself,” she said dismissively. “I’ll prove to Mirabelle Restoration is a perfectly valid School of magic.”

“Of course you will, Colette.” The dryness in the black-haired mage’s voice could have come straight from the sands of Elseweyr.

Colette walked out, nose in the air as Bretons excelled at, and she sighed. “I wish we could trade her for Danica Pure-Spring, but the High Priestess of Kynareth can hardly leave her Temple.”

“Don’t worry, lass, I won’t tell her you said that,” Brynjolf assured her with a grin.

The mage laughed warmly and pushed back her long black hair from a face that was as square-jawed and high-cheekboned as any Nord’s but graced with an overlarge nose that could only be described as a Cyrod’s raptor’s beak. On the short side for a Nord, her complexion was olive-bronze and her eyes a gold-washed turquoise. At first glance, he’d have mistaken her for Sigdrifa Stormsword, but there was too much warmth and humour in her features to bear much resemblance after a longer perusal. In fact, she was rather attractive.

“I’m Laina Green-Fingers,” she said with a smile. “I’ve got you in a room in the College of Winterhold. Colette won’t cross the bridge even if Julianos waited on the other side to proclaim the superiority of Restoration over all other Schools of magic, so me and Onmund had to bring you over here.”

“Brynjolf,” he told her, matching her smile. “Are you an apprentice then?”

Laina snorted. “No. I’m the Alchemy Master, for what it’s worth. I was too skilled to be an apprentice or junior faculty but not so much in any of the Schools that lack a true Master I could replace the most senior faculty member. So giving me this job was Mirabelle’s compromise.”

Brynjolf glanced around the room and saw his Guild leathers were folded neatly on a nearby shelf, cleaned and newly mended, with his sheathed daggers on top of them. “Will there be any problem with me being a Thief? I wouldn’t want to repay you with trouble.”

“Enthir and I made some noises about how having a Thief who owes the College a couple of favours could only be to our benefit,” Laina admitted with a slight shrug. “Savos Aren agreed to it and while Mirabelle’s a little dubious, the Master Wizard won’t argue with his orders. Don’t steal from us and you’ll be allowed to stay here for as long as you wish. Who knows? You might pick up a bit of useful magic along the way.”

Brynjolf swung his legs around, realising he’d been given a good scrub while he was unconscious and his loincloth replaced with one of finer quality. Aside from a pair of new pink shiny scars, there was no sign of what happened at Snow Veil Sanctum. “Colette might be a pain in the arse but she’s a talented healer.”

“She’s competent enough,” Laina agreed. “But your wound was already half-healed by the time she got to you. My poultice and potion did much of the heavy lifting.”

“Aye, tasted like shit,” he said ruefully. “But you know your art, lass. Don’t let Colette’s attitude get you down.”

Laina laughed. “It doesn’t. I’m more skilled in Alteration than she is in Restoration and well on my way to the Master Ritual of that School. I majored in Alchemy and Enchanting at Arcane University because the theory was relatively easy but the practical application fairly profitable. The combination of the three funds my studies better than being a pure theorist could.”

“If you’re looking for another market, lass, I can tell you the Guild would be happy to buy,” he assured her as he pulled on his cotton breeks – clean and smelling of lavender! – and light undershirt. “Once Mercer’s dealt with…”

“I’m not above a little cross-Guild cooperation,” Laina said. “But until this Mercer – I’ve heard of him, Neela-Tai says he’s more crooked than a snake in a knot – is contained, it won’t be safe for you to return to Riften. And that won’t happen until Enthir can translate Gallus’ journal. It’s in what appears to be Low Falmer and most of the translation codices we have in the Ysmir Collective are in High Falmer, which was a highly technical dialect compared to the reputedly more colloquial Low.”

“So Karliah confided in you?” Brynjolf asked, pulling on his leather pants.

“Not exactly. Enthir did. He owed me a favour because I saved him from a censuring due to an unwise bargain he’d made with a mage of dubious reputation.” Laina chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. “We’re in the middle of excavating Saarthal and for a period of about twenty years or so, the Atmorani and the Falmer lived in relative peace. You’re a Master in the Guild, right?”

“Aye,” he admitted. “That’s what the black and silver means.”

“Much the same in Cyrodiil,” she noted. “Aside from my practical major, my primary field of scholarly study is post-Dragon War and pre-Talosite ritual magic. Saarthal was built at the Dragon Cult’s beginnings in Skyrim, a couple hundred years before Alduin decided to defy Akatosh’s edicts and set himself up as the Dovthursekeizaal, the Dragon-Tyrant of Skyrim, but it’s still a purer expression of Atmorani magical practice than anything I could find in Bruma.”

“You don’t buy into those rumours of dragons in Falkreath, do you?” Brynjolf asked, buckling up his jacket.

“They weren’t rumours. I have seen the bones of dragons and the weapons one can forge from them,” Laina answered softly but with conviction. “But the ancients who worshipped them were also clever bastards. Where one might expect a mechanical trap, they used magic. And where one expects magic, they used mechanical.”

“Ah,” Brynjolf said slowly. “You want me to disarm any traps you come across in Saarthal.”

Laina nodded. “As I said, a Thief who owes the College a couple favours can only be to our benefit. You get sanctuary and regular work, we get someone who can disarm inconvenient traps and locks. Deal?”

She offered her hand and he took it, noting the sword-calluses on the palm and the faint silver-blue scar that bisected an eyebrow and ran down the right cheek. With her talk of dragons and coming from Bruma, she made him think of crazy old Esbern who’d been a Blade once. Maybe she even knew him.

“Aye,” he agreed, shaking her hand. Then he lifted it to his lips and lightly kissed the back of it. “It’ll be my _pleasure_ to work with you, Laina Green-Fingers.”

Her smile warmed in a promising manner. Maybe they’d mix a little business with pleasure. That’d be fine by him.


	2. Visions from the Psijics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. This Laina never got busted as Callaina, so her life didn’t suck as much in the Synod.

“You didn’t have to accompany me,” Tolfdir said warmly as they all trooped down to Saarthal. It was another cold day in Winterhold but the sky was a clear icy blue. “We’re just puttering around in the front part of the excavations.”

“Arniel’s involved and whenever Arniel’s involved, something goes wrong,” Laina said ruefully as she looked over her shoulder at the apprentices and Brynjolf. Onmund was subdued and troubled by the thought of poking around a tomb, Brelyna was unperturbed because as a Telvanni, she was used to old dead things, and J’zargo was clearly imagining the potential for larceny and power. Brynjolf, healed of his wounds, wore his Guild leathers and moved with a lazy, dangerous grace. “Besides, I know you want to examine that earthen seal on the corridor that goes deeper into the ruins and I want our new friend to go over it for mechanical traps before we fiddle around.”

Tolfdir chuckled. “Salient points. You know he came to the lecture on magical safety and I talked him into learning – and demonstrating – Lesser Ward? He might make for a new apprentice.”

“I get the feeling Bryn’s not above learning a few new tricks to assist him in his work,” Laina observed. “But his loyalty’s to the Guild. He’s only marking time here until we crack the old Guildmaster’s journal and find the evidence of the current one’s betrayal.”

“You sound a little sad about that,” Tolfdir shrewdly noted.

“He’s attractive, smart and funny,” Laina said defensively. “I can enjoy myself a little during the time we have together. I’m not sworn to celibacy.”

“Neither’s he by the way he keeps on admiring your hips,” Tolfdir chuckled.

They reached the walkway into Saarthal and on the way, Laina stopped at every exposed vein of ore to extract the metal from it with Alteration. Transmutation was her particularly specialty in Alteration and while consuming of both time and magicka, it ensured she never went without funds in a pinch.

“You’re a walking goldmine, aren’t you, lass?” Brynjolf asked in some surprise behind her.

“I can’t make gold out of thin air,” she said as she tucked the ore into her beltpouch. “But I can refine ore as necessary. Pays for my drinks if nothing else.”

Brynjolf chuckled richly, the sound warming Laina’s bones. “Seems a bit too much effort just to pay for the drinks. I just pick a pocket or two.”

“While I have no moral objections to picking some overstuffed merchant’s pocket, I’d rather not help myself to someone’s last few septims simply for a drink,” Laina answered. “Some of the Guildsmen had an issue with Corvus’ order to leave the poor and lower class alone. Did they make it to Riften?”

“Corvus sounds much like Gallus was,” Brynjolf said with a sigh, a flash of the pain his humour and flirtation concealed in his green gaze. “It makes sense, but when our luck went sour, Mercer gave the order to get whatever septims we could, no matter how it had to be done.”

“From the little you’ve told me, he’s skimming,” Laina observed softly.

“Karliah said he’d broken his oaths. I never knew the Thief who took an oath, so…” Brynjolf sighed again. “I’m worried about the folk I left behind, lass. Mercer’s probably soiled my name with them and I don’t want to fight old friends.”

“Well, I didn’t invite you to Saarthal just because of the possibility for mechanical traps,” Laina said, nodding to the door below where the others were gathered. “Tolfdir can read Atmorani runes and if there’s any Low Falmer codices, they’ll likely be here.”

“Can Tolfdir be trusted?” he asked anxiously.

“I might have given him that ship from your belongings to study, as it’s an example of Atmorani shipbuilding,” Laina admitted. “Tolfdir – and by extension Onmund – want to reclaim the old Nord magics, the Clever Craft tradition, and so they’ll examine any artefact from the ruins without giving a damn where they came from. So long as you’re an apprentice, he won’t care what you do for extracurricular fun, and when you’re gone he won’t care because it isn’t related to the Saarthal ruins.”

“So you’re certain it’s Low Falmer then?” Brynjolf asked softly.

“I am. Enthir and I spent last night going over the pages and comparing the script to the known Falmer scripts we have in the Arcaneum. We even showed Urag a page and he confirmed it had to be Low Falmer, because he taught himself High Falmer and Holy Falmer from the codices in the library. If we can’t find anything in Saarthal, we’ll need to appeal to Calcelmo in Markarth.” Laina smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry it’s going to take a while, Brynjolf. The faculty’s a bit…”

“I imagine having that bastard Ancano breathing down your necks must be difficult,” Brynjolf observed. “Mirabelle’s competent enough, but Savos is hiding a deep dark secret, and I find that sort of thing professionally interesting. Faralda, Tolfdir, Urag, Drevis, Enthir and Sergius are sound, Arniel, Colette and Phinis Gestor are flaky to say the least, Nirya would sell you out for a smile from Ancano and Arniel’s probably doing something very dangerous and likely stupid.”

“You picked all that up in three days?” Laina asked in astonishment.

Brynjolf smiled. “It's all about sizing up your mark, lass. The way they walk, what they're wearing. It's a dead giveaway.”

“I see you earned those Master’s leathers,” she noted dryly.

“I’ve been with the Riften Guild since about twelve,” he said with a shrug. “And before that, my ma and da were part of the Markarth Guild, until that bastard Ulfric overthrew the Ard Ri.”

“I’m sorry,” she said with a twinge of conscience. What if he learned about her own ancestry?

“Don’t be. I rob the Palace of the Kings once a year and amuse myself by running an article of the Stormsword’s clothing up a flagpole. You can hear her shrieks in Riften.” He smiled and leaned forward a little, breath stirring her hair. “Don’t tell the Stormcloaks and I won’t tell anyone you’re a Blade.”

“My father was, but I know some of the old dragonlore,” she said softly, leaning forward, putting her words into his ear. “Don’t tell Ancano I’m related to a Blade and I won’t tell Nirya who swiped her empty soul gems for Onmund to fill.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re not in the Guild, lass,” he mused hoarsely. “I’d be having to watch my tailfeathers in case you wanted my job.”

Laina laughed as she went to join the others. “You’re smoother than I could ever be, so I think your job’s safe.”

…

Brynjolf took a few deep breaths to get himself under control before climbing down the rest of the way to join the mages. Laina gave as good as she got and Brynjolf found that _very_ attractive. If she’d been in the Guild, he’d have propositioned her already. But alas, for a non-Guild member, he needed to be patient and discreet.

“So this is Saarthal,” he observed as Tolfdir called the apprentices closer.

“As some of you may know, Saarthal was one of the earliest Nord settlements in Skyrim. It was also the largest. Sacked by the elves in the infamous ‘Night of Tears,’ not much is known about what happened to Saarthal. This is an exciting opportunity for us. To be able to study such an early civilization, and the magics they used...” The Alteration Master smiled. “So yes, this is Saarthal. Shall we all go inside? Arniel awaits us.”

“Arniel, unsupervised, in a ruin full of draugr and only Kynareth knows what else,” Laina said dryly. “We better hurry before he wakes up something best left undisturbed.”

“This from the woman who got chased around Southfringe Sanctum by a king-draugr for five hours because she was careless,” Tolfdir retorted mildly.

“I was _sixteen_ , Tolfdir. Arniel’s sixty.” Laina patted the sheathed blade at her waist. “Besides, I got a nice stalhrim sword out of it.”

“I’ve never seen stalhrim outside of Solstheim,” Brelyna said with some surprise.

“It’s one of the secrets we’ve lost,” Tolfdir answered with a sigh. “It is my hope we can recreate the formula for the mythical enchanted ice by our research here.”

They trooped into the ruins and Tolfdir assigned the apprentices each a simple task. “Don’t pocket _anything_ until it’s been checked over by me, Laina or Arniel,” he warned. “We’re not above letting you keep little trinkets but first they must be studied, catalogued and assessed for potential curses.”

J’zargo heaved a heavy sigh and Brynjolf smiled sympathetically at the Khajiit. The lure of shiny magical objects was a real one and he’d already learned magery was an expensive business.

Laina and Brynjolf were assigned to the side chamber where she’d mentioned an earthen seal. The three rings, all of ancient gold, were enchanted to bolster the wearer’s health according to Laina. “Minor enchantments, honestly worth more to study than to pawn off to Birna in Winterhold,” was her analysis before turning them over to Arniel. “But that amulet on the earthen seal looks more promising.”

That amulet, a thing of horker ivory strung on leather with sabre cat fangs and carved with the symbol of Jhunal, the ancient Nord god of magic, might have been more promising but it also trapped them all in the side chamber. Laina’s pithily obscene curse drew Tolfdir.

“What in the world was that racket? Everything all right?” the old mage asked anxiously.

“I pulled this amulet of Jhunal off the wall and the next thing I know, we’re stuck in here,” Laina admitted ruefully.

“Really? Perhaps the amulet is important somehow. Is there some way you can use it?” After Laina examined it closely, then donned the ivory amulet, Tolfdir’s face suddenly broke out into a smile. “Do you see that? Some kind of resonance... you and the wall. It must be connected to the amulet! I wonder... what effect might your spells have?”

“I think transmuting this seal to dust ought to do the trick,” Laina noted as she placed her hands on the clay. Blue-green energy flared green under her palms and it crumbled away, revealing a new corridor and opening the grated door.

“So it did,” Tolfdir said approvingly. “I think we’ll leave the apprentices to Arniel and explore this new corridor. Did you wish to come along, Brynjolf?”

“Aye. I’m here to check for traps you might miss.” He grinned. “Besides, who knows what grave goods the ancients had here? I’m sure there might be something here a simple Thief like me could use.”

“Once they’re assessed, catalogued and checked you may keep anything you find,” promised Tolfdir. “You are, after all, technically an apprentice here.”

In the next room, after Laina had gathered a few useful fungi, the room was suddenly awash with a pale blue glow and Tolfdir seemed to stop. Before Brynjolf’s astonished eyes, an Altmer in elaborate robes of ivory, scarlet and blue appeared out of nowhere, his expression stern.

“Hold, mage, and listen well... Know that you have set in motion a chain of events that cannot be stopped. Judgment has not been passed, as you had no way of knowing. Judgment will be passed on your actions to come, and how you deal with the dangers ahead of you. This warning is passed to you because the Psijic Order believes in you. You, mage, and you alone, have the potential to prevent disaster. Take great care, and know that the Order is watching,” he announced haughtily.

He vanished by the time Laina’s hand went to her sword, the world returning to normal.

“I... I swear I felt something rather strange just then. What just happened?” Tolfdir asked, shaking his head in bewilderment.

“The Psijic Order just deigned to make its first visit in a century,” Laina said, her tone shaken.

“The Psijic Order? Are you quite sure about that? That's very odd,” Tolfdir said.

“He said something about danger ahead,” Brynjolf told him. “I’m not sure if he was addressing Laina or myself.”

“Danger ahead? Why that doesn't make any sense at all. The Psijics have no connection to these ruins. And no one's seen any of their order in a long time…” Tolfdir knuckled his eyes wearily.

“Who are the Psijics when they’re at home?” Brynjolf asked.

“They were a group of mages with history that pre-dates the Empire. Very powerful, very secretive. No one's seen them in well over a hundred years. They vanished, along with their sanctuary on the Isle of Artaeum. I have no idea what connection they'd have to this place…” Tolfdir’s expression was a mixture of concern and curiosity. “The Isle of Artaeum disappeared over a hundred years ago, and no one has seen them since. And yet now, suddenly, they have chosen to contact you? Why, it's intriguing! If nothing else, I'd take it as a compliment. The Psijics have only ever dealt with those they feel worthy.”

“Given they vanished themselves to escape the rising power of the Thalmor, I have to wonder if Ancano’s involved somehow,” Laina said grimly. “Kynareth knows he’s up to no good.”

Tolfdir nodded slowly. “That’s as good an explanation as any. Let’s check these coffins-“

The coffins opened to reveal three draugr that were unhappy to have their graves disturbed. Brynjolf drew his daggers and kicked one back into its coffin, decapitating it in one swift strike as Laina and Tolfdir made short work of the other two with a blaze of sun-bright energy and a firebolt. “Sun’s Fire!” the latter remarked. “That’s usually a priest’s spell.”

“Danica taught me it after I restored the Gildergreen,” Laina said with a shrug. “Since I’m doing most of my research in tombs, it seemed useful to know.”

“I've never seen anything like this in Nordic ruins before,” Tolfdir mused, looking at the open coffins. “Why, just look at all these coffins! This bears closer inspection. I'd like to stay a while and examine this. You, however, should press on. See if you can find whatever this vision of yours mentioned. But if it is truly dangerous, be careful. Go on ahead. I'll be sure and catch up with you before long.”

“If we find anything interesting, we’ll give a yell,” Laina promised.

There were more twists and turns, draugr appearing at random intervals, fungi and moss that Laina stuffed into her satchel, and even a few ancient gems, coins and other valuables among the grave goods. Tolfdir rejoined them soon enough just before they pressed deeper into the ruins.

“Hold on, my friends. Hold on! I thought it high time I caught up with you,” he panted. “I think we’re approaching the inner sanctum.”

So they were and the draugr kept on getting more and more powerful, the traps began to get more dangerous, and the loot more valuable. Brynjolf guessed they were getting into where the nobles had been interred and that promised something of great value… and great danger. King-draugr defended their tombs and usually had a huscarl or two to back them up.

The pillar puzzle proved to be a pain in the arse because if you moved one, the others moved as well, but solving it required nothing more than persistence and a few pungent curses from Laina that drew laughter from Tolfdir. “You’re not back in the Legion, you know,” he said ruefully.

“You should have heard what she said about my colleague,” Brynjolf said ruefully as the door opened.

“I can imagine. Karliah left her to practically carry you to Winterhold.”

The final sanctum was dominated by a curved wall carved in Dragonish with one of the glowing words Brynjolf occasionally saw and a massive sphere that turned slowly above a sarcophagus. It reeked of magic and danger and the hairs on the back of Brynjolf’s neck rose.

“Well now... would you look at that. I never imagined we'd find something like this. Why is this buried so far within Saarthal?” Tolfdir breathed in awe.

“’Ware the draugr!” Laina barked as she drew her stalhrim sword, the sarcophagus lid flying off to reveal a very unhappy king-draugr. Sun-bright energy flew from her other hand to strike it in the head, earning a grating dismissive chuckle.

Tolfdir pummelled it with fireballs before saying, “Nothing seems to work! Keep it busy. I'll try to drain some of its power!”

Lacking any kind of offensive spell beyond Flames, something he’d need to remedy if he was going to be hanging around the College for a bit, Brynjolf threw a loose piece of rubble at the king-draugr as Laina switched to ice spikes, aiming for the joints to hobble its advance. The missiles made it stagger back but caused no visible harm.

“There! Now attack it!” Tolfdir yelled, suiting action to words with more fireballs.

Laina sheathed her stalhrim blade, put her wrists together with the palms facing the king-draugr, and unleashed a powerful spear of ice that transfixed its torso and pinned it to the ground. Brynjolf took advantage of it to jump down from the top of the stairs, land with a roll that brought him to his feet, and draw his ebony daggers. Cursing vilely, on fire, the draugr watched helplessly as he approached and decapitated it with a cross-strike from his two blades.

The light died in its eyes and the body collapsed, a scrap of parchment fluttering from a fragment of ivory not unlike the one Laina found on the seal. Brynjolf picked up the scrap of parchment, found a bunch of incomprehensible runes, and handed it to Tolfdir as the old mage hurried down.

“’Be bound here, Jyrik, murderer and betrayer. Condemned by your crimes against realm and lord. May your name and deeds be forgotten forever. And the charm which you bear be sealed by our ward’,” he read. “Now, why does this sound familiar?”

“I think it’s related to the Gauldur legend,” Laina said, panting. “You know, from Talsgar the Elder’s book on lost legends?”

“Yes, that would be it, but Gauldur and his sons lived several hundred years after the fall of Saarthal,” Tolfdir observed. He nodded up at the massive sphere which spun lazily above Jyrik’s corpse. “I'm not the only one seeing this, am I? Why, this is utterly unique.”

“It radiates enough magicka to blind the unwary,” Laina said in awe.

“I have no idea! This is amazing. Absolutely amazing. The Arch-Mage needs to be informed immediately. He needs to see this for himself. I don't dare leave this unattended. Can you return to the College and inform Savos Aren of this discovery? Please, hurry!” Tolfdir was already peering up at it intently.

“Will you be alright on your own, lad?” Brynjolf asked.

“Oh, I think I'll be fine. We seem to have eliminated the most pressing threat. It certainly seems that whoever placed this here intended for it to be well guarded. I wonder why...” Tolfdir’s tone was already absent as he got lost in his study of the sphere.

“Let’s collect what we can and leave Tolfdir to it,” Laina said as she pulled some charcoal and parchment from her satchel. “Brynjolf, can you make a rubbing of that Word Wall? I can add the inscription to my codex of Dovahzul language.”

“Aye, lass,” he agreed. “Pity I can’t contact Tonilia. She’d be able to tell you how much that sphere’s worth down to the last septim… and probably find you a buyer within the week. You could fund the College for a century, even after she took her share from the deal.”

“The only factions that could afford this would be the Synod, the College of Whispers and the Thalmor,” Laina said as she pried the ivory fragment from Jyrik’s neck. “The first would use it for political power, the second would probably accidentally summon a Daedric Prince for dinner, and the third would use it to try and unmake the world. I think the College better hang onto it for now.”

“I think this is what the Psijics were warning us about,” Tolfdir agreed.

“Aye,” Brynjolf concurred. The glowing word said ‘Slen’ and somehow connected to ‘Iiz’, the word he read at Mount Anthor when he climbed up there once. _Ice_ and _Flesh._ He’d never yet figured out how he knew the meaning of certain Dragonish words.

Laden with goods, they collected the apprentices, and returned to the College. Savos was going to have a field day with this.


	3. Finding Closure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for alcohol use and mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, genocide, religious conflict and war crimes. Altered the summary slightly as to put a bit of time between ‘Under Saarthal’ and ‘Dragon Rising’ and changing up the reward for ‘Under Saarthal’ because Laina already knows Magelight.

“Well, lass, I’d say the expedition was a success. Even if the College takes its share, we’ve got a few hundred septims’ worth of goods here,” Brynjolf said with satisfaction as they laid out the artefacts from Saarthal on a table in the Arcaneum. Most of them were unenchanted grave goods, but they’d picked up a unique staff of ash topped with blue quartzite, the ivory fragment that might be part of Gauldur’s legendary enchanted amulet, and a fine example of a wonder-smithed greatsword that was icy to the touch. Even without the massive sphere, these were impressive archaeological findings. With the sphere…

“The College doesn’t take a cut from our profits,” Laina answered as she examined the staff, feeling the thrum of electricity under her fingers. “Once we’re past basic lessons like the one you received in Warding, we have to pay for private tutoring, so they extract the coin in other ways. It’s not that different to the Synod, except that Winterhold is aggressively indifferent to external politics.”

“Not unlike the Guild,” he observed. “Was there anything in Low Falmer?”

“I’m not sure.” Laina sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. Dungeon-crawling and a battle with a king-draugr exhausted her, even after years of experience. “But I doubt it. Arniel would have said something if Tolfdir missed it. For the most part, we share our research freely among the senior faculty.”

“Yet not with me,” said an unwanted voice behind her, haughty with the arrogance of an Altmer.

“Because you’re a guest who hasn’t participated in the least bit of research or teaching with us,” Laina said bluntly as she turned to face Ancano. “Give a little and you might get a little in return.”

“I had hoped your scholars would be on a level comparable with my own colleagues,” Ancano retorted, brushing back his long white hair from its widow peak. “They are, to be frank, not.”

“No one could exceed the Thalmor in terms of arrogant know-it-alls,” Laina countered dryly. “For someone determined to building a relationship between the Dominion and the College, you’re very condescending and egotistical.”

“I didn’t realise you were a diplomatic expert as well as a stealer of relics from ancient tombs,” Ancano said calmly.

“I had the privilege of counting Justicar Ondolemar among the early influences on my life in Bruma,” Laina told him with a slight smile. “You’d learn well from his attitude towards humanity.”

“ _You’re_ Ondolemar’s pet Nord mage?” Ancano’s eyes widened in surprise.

“When I’m in Markarth next, I can let him know you’re aware of his reputation,” Laina offered sweetly.

Ancano held up his hands. “No, no, that’s alright. I know Ondolemar’s not a pervert who dallies with human women.”

“For a diplomatic adviser, lad, you’re awfully good at putting your foot in your mouth,” Brynjolf noted amusedly.

“Why don’t you go speak to Nirya? She’s always happy to cooperate with you,” Laina suggested dryly.

Ancano sniffed and stalked off, heading for the Hall of the Elements.

“Was that wise, lass?” Brynjolf asked softly once he was gone.

“My connections to Ondolemar are fairly well known. He was the Thalmor who pulled me from the ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple and took an interest in my early education,” Laina answered. “He’s also the Chief Justicar in Skyrim, so Ancano will watch his step.”

She knuckled her eyes. “Alright, these aren’t cursed. Urag and Sergius will catalogue them. We better report to Savos – he’ll want to speak to you about the Psijic’s visit.”

The Arch-Mage was in his quarters, poring over a tattered manuscript and idly fingering the iron torc he always wore. The fringed hood of his robe was pushed down, revealing his black hair and knotted beard, and his stone-grey fingers traced the lines of ancient Atmorani runes. “Laina,” he said without looking up. “I see you brought your Thief friend with you.”

“We had a Psijic visitation in the ruins of Saarthal and found something unprecedented shortly afterwards,” she told him. “Oh, and I told Ancano my Thalmor connections were bigger than his because he decided to get snide with me again.”

“The Psijics?” he asked in surprise. “One of their number used to advise the Arch-Mage when I was but an apprentice here. But that was a great many years ago, before all the members of the order were called back to the Isle of Artaeum, and it disappeared entirely.”

“Aye. Tolfdir said it happened about a century ago,” Brynjolf said.

“Roughly. I was an apprentice then and don’t remember much of him, because Istgeir Tongue-of-Shor wasn’t inclined to confiding in junior faculty.” Savos set the manuscript aside. “Tell me of this ‘something unprecedented’. It must be impressive to rattle both you and Tolfdir.”

“We found some sort of... orb. Tolfdir wanted you to see it,” Laina said with a sigh. “It radiates Aedric magicka equal to the bronze dragon statue in the ruins of the Temple of the One in the Imperial City.”

“I... see. I trust that Tolfdir will provide a more... specific explanation. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” Savos pinched the bridge of his nose. “Since he's apparently occupied, and I will need to see this discovery for myself, I think perhaps you should begin researching the subject. You’re our secondary specialist in Nordic ruins after all.”

“My specialty is post-Dragon Cult and pre-Talosite relics,” Laina pointed out.

“Laina Green-Fingers, I know very well your true focus is on the dragonlore of the ancient Nords and Akaviri,” Savos retorted with a rare flash of testiness. “Esbern of the Blades _was_ a member of our faculty for several years, after all. This ‘orb’ hails from the time when the Atmorani worshipped the dragons and might somehow be related to them. Who else should I ask? Onmund’s too inexperienced, Arniel’s up to something and I can hardly trust Nirya or Enthir.”

“I wasn’t arguing with the assignment,” Laina countered flatly. “I was just reminding you what my scholastic major at Arcane University was.”

“What your ‘official’ major was,” Savos corrected dryly. “Speak with Urag in the Arcaneum. See if he is aware of anything that matches your discovery. And... good work.”

He handed over a sapphire-set silver circlet that gleamed with enchantment. “This circlet once proved invaluable to me. I hope it can be of use to you now.”

“Magicka fortification,” Laina noted professionally on examination. “Fairly powerful one too.”

“Indeed,” Savos said softly. “I can think of none better to wear it.”

…

Laina massaged her temples underneath her new circlet as Urag delivered the bad news that a renegade apprentice had stolen the books required for research into Saarthal and the Psijics. “Of course Orthorn took them,” she said wearily. “Because he’s a bloody little idiot who existed to inconvenience the rest of us.”

The Orc chuckled. “That’s an Altmer of indifferent magical talent for you. Are you going out to collect the books yourself or will you get one of the apprentices to do it?”

“Savos gave me the job directly. He was rather emphatic about it,” the sorceress said wryly. “Tolfdir’s busy with this orb and Savos can hardly leave himself, so it falls to me.”

Urag nodded. “I’m not surprised. Since you’re wandering around Skyrim anyway, I’ve collected everything I know about the Gauldur legend and Shalidor’s writings. It should keep you and your boyfriend occupied until Enthir can find a source of Low Falmer script we can use as a translation for that journal.”

Laina groaned. “I’ll save him the trouble. If we couldn’t find it in Saarthal, we’ll need to appeal to Calcelmo in Markarth… and if he knows Enthir’s involved, he’ll remove us from Understone Keep with a boot to our arses.”

Brynjolf stirred, looking between the pair of them. “Enthir’s reputation is that bad?”

“Enthir’s been kicked out of the Valenwood Academy of Arcane Arts, Arcane University, the College of Whispers and three different institutes of higher learning in High Rock because of his habit of ‘borrowing’ other people’s research without permission,” Urag answered sardonically. “He doesn’t do it here because most of us could fry his ass without breaking a sweat but we’re not overly concerned with what he does so long as it doesn’t reflect badly on the College.”

“Aye, Karliah said he knew our old Guildmaster Gallus,” Brynjolf admitted. “I should probably check with her. I haven’t been over to Winterhold yet.”

“Ignore Korir if he starts ranting about the College,” Urag advised. “We’re the only reason his flyspeck Hold still exists. You’d think he’d be a bit more grateful for it.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Laina observed. “You don’t cross the bridge.”

For all their words, Brynjolf and Laina didn’t go over to Winterhold until the next afternoon, as Saarthal had been exhausting for everyone. Brynjolf decided to let Brelyna cast a minor spell on him and found the world tinged with green as Onmund and J’zargo burst out laughing.

“Oh dear,” Laina remarked on seeing him. “You look a little green around the gills but I detect no other adverse effects. Sleep it off and we’ll see how you look in the morning.”

Brynjolf, thank the gods, wasn’t green after a good night’s sleep. So after some breakfast, in the interest of earning more favours in the College, he agreed to let Brelyna cast a second spell on him on the proviso Laina supervised the entire effort.

He didn’t remember much of it but when he came around, Laina and Brelyna were speaking in Dunmeri, the words far more technical and academic than the thief’s cant he was familiar with. The womer’s expression was greatly embarrassed but he didn’t have the opportunity to ask what went wrong, as she cast another spell and rendered him unconscious.

When he came to again, Brelyna was looking mortified and Laina simply exasperated. “What in the gods’ names happened?” he demanded.

“Brelyna accidentally cast a shapeshifting spell instead of Ironflesh Other,” Laina said with a sigh. “You turned into an entire menagerie before we managed to restore your true form.”

“Mages can _shapeshift_?” Brynjolf yelped. “I thought it was a myth!”

“You need to be both powerful and skilled. I can assume the form of a Jeralls hawk, but I was Journeymage-level in Alteration by a relatively young age, even for a human,” Laina answered. “Brelyna’s got quite a bit of potential but her focus is shaky.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever volunteer to do that again,” Brynjolf said fervently. “Thank the gods I can’t remember a thing!”

It took a couple bottles of the College’s homebrew mead before he was ready to make the trek over to Winterhold. Laina used that time to make up some potions, pack some supplies, and change into the drab grey robes of a College apprentice instead of her more usual warm orange Journeymage robes. “Enthir’s still over in Winterhold,” she explained as they crossed the bridge. “He’s been closeted with Karliah on and off for the past four days.”

“They were friends with Gallus and Mercer betrayed him, as he betrayed me,” Brynjolf said with a sigh. “I should be warning the Guild-“

“Until you have the proof, all you’d do is risk yourself,” Laina interrupted wearily. “Unless there’s someone you could quietly warn without getting caught?”

He chewed his bottom lip. “I think Sapphire’s got a job in Markarth coming up. She’s not inclined to trust Mercer. Honestly, she doesn’t trust many people at all.”

“Well, I’ve these books to collect in Fellglow Keep, several enchantment orders to deliver, a possible location for the second part of Gauldur’s amulet in Hjaalmarch and rumours of a set of Shalidor’s writings in the Reach, so we might as well go to Markarth along the way,” Laina suggested. “I suspect Calcelmo will tell Enthir to fuck off, but he might be inclined to be polite to me… particularly since my old friend Ondolemar lives in Markarth.”

Brynjolf stopped in the middle of the bridge. “Lass, I know we’re attracted to each other, but why are you throwing yourself into my problems?”

She looked surprised at the question. “Why wouldn’t I? We have a lot in common and I don’t have so many people I can be relatively open with. You’ve kept your end of the bargain so far, so it behoves me to keep mine.”

“Of course,” he said weakly.

Winterhold was as desolate and shabby as he dimly recalled from a few days ago. Laina stopped in at the general store, where a weary, worn-faced blonde named Birna traded a sack of smoked horker for several healing and stamina potions. “Thanks, Laina,” the merchant said gratefully. “Tax time’s comin’ up and Ranmir’s been drinkin’ the coin away.”

“I know. Haran’s been bitching at him about the unpaid debt. He really needs to find something to do,” Laina agreed with a sigh.

“Don’t I know it?” Birna said wearily. “Since Isabella vanished to become a Thief, he’s been heartbroken.”

Brynjolf winced involuntarily. “Lass by that name came to the Guild and one of my colleagues sent her out on a minor job. She didn’t come back and so we had to assume the worst.”

“Oh damn,” Birna said with a sigh. “Do you think she’s dead?”

“Probably. Isabella was fairly keen and she’d passed our first test. I think Vex sent her to retrieve something up in the Pale. Minor job in a minor Hold, suitable for a rookie. If she didn’t come back, it’s because she was probably dead.”

“Do you have anything of hers?” Laina asked gently. “I can confirm it.”

Wordlessly, Birna produced a scarf. “She used to wear this. Ranmir knitted it for her.”

Laina laid a hand on the scarf, her blue-green gaze going distant, and a flash of sorrow crossed her face. “She’s in some ice cave and… she’s dead. I’m sorry, Birna.”

Birna nodded, tears in her eyes. “I knew it had to be something like that. She wouldn’t have just up and left my brother for no reason.”

Brynjolf sighed. “I can give him the coin from her first job. It isn’t much but…”

“It might give my brother closure. Or it’ll make him more of a drunk than he already is,” Birna finished. “Thank you, Laina. For one of them mages, you aren’t half-bad.”

“Thanks,” she said softly.

Ranmir was only tipsy when they entered the Frozen Hearth and Brynjolf delivered the news and a small pouch of septims, he broke into tears that were enough to wrench a Stormcloak’s heart. Laina poured something into a bottle of homebrew beer from the College and gave it to him; soon enough, he was snoring with his head against the table in a puddle of his own drool. “It isn’t much, but it was the best I could do,” she told Haran and Dagur, the innkeepers, before handing over a few healing potions. “Sleep will help him better than anything else at the moment… and at least he has some closure.”

“What kind of witch’s brew did you give one of my people?” snapped an auburn-haired man in tattered robes and a dented copper circlet.

“I gave him a sleeping potion because we just found out Isabella died, Jarl Korir,” Laina answered, raking back her long black hair. “Was I supposed to just let the man suffer?”

“I’m watching you,” Korir warned.

“Good, lad. Maybe you’ll learn something,” Brynjolf retorted flatly. “Laina healed wounds I sustained when a friend betrayed me, then carried me to Winterhold on her own back despite being exhausted herself, and has provided most of the potions your village relies on. She’s a good woman with a warm heart and if that’s what makes a Nord, then she’s a truer Nord than any Stormcloak I’ve ever met.”

Haran began to clap slowly as Korir went an unhealthy puce. “Well said!”

Laina wiped at her eyes and Brynjolf gave her a confused glance. Why would she be crying? It was true.

Korir pounded the table with his fist. “And what would a Thief know about the honour of the Stormcloaks?”

Brynjolf caught and held the Jarl’s gaze. “Because I didn’t become a Thief until the Stormcloaks murdered my family in the Markarth Incident and I was left with few other options, lad.”

“Oh,” Korir said weakly, the colour leaving his cheeks. If it wasn’t for his rugged features that could only come from northern Skyrim, he’d have passed for a Reacher Nord.

“Karliah and Enthir are downstairs in the cellar,” Laina said softly. “I think we should speak to them.”

“Aye,” Brynjolf agreed as he headed for the cellar. It was probably good they were leaving Winterhold for a bit because he’d never met the Stormcloak who could handle the truth of the Markarth Incident well.


	4. Arrival in Dawnstar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for fantastic racism and mentions of death, violence, corpse desecration and criminal acts. I’ve belted out ten thousand or so words over the past 48 hours because it’s been a cold AF Sunday where I live and I had nothing better to do because I didn’t want to go outside.

“I’d have thought after Snow Veil Sanctum you’d have wanted to avoid old Nord ruins,” Karliah observed as they entered the cellar.

“I owed the College a favour or two, lass,” Brynjolf answered with a shrug. “Technically, I’m an apprentice. I even learned a new spell a couple days ago.”

“Yes, Tolfdir expressed his surprise that you learned Lesser Ward so quickly,” Enthir noted. “I’ve found even a couple minor spells can be handy in a pinch.”

“Between Open Lock and Transmute Ore, I’m rarely short of funds,” Laina admitted with a laugh.

“As a member of the senior faculty of the College, I must express my disappointment in a fellow mage admitting to larceny and debasing the gold standard on which our glorious Empire rests,” Enthir said sardonically. “Off the record, however, I’m pleased to meet another mage with a practical turn of mind. Theory doesn’t pay the bills unless you’ve got a rich family.”

“I unlock chests and doors in tombs or bandit strongholds,” Laina told him. “Random larceny isn’t practical when you’re a mage because if something goes missing, you’re usually accused of vanishing it by the average mouth-breathing cousin-fucker that dwells in the Old Holds.”

Karliah laughed. “Gallus would have liked you, Laina. Are you sure you haven’t missed your calling?”

“Given I could cast Transmute Ore and Telekinesis by the age of eight, I doubt it,” Laina said. “But a light step and a quick wit goes far in almost any situation.”

Enthir whistled. “So why’d you major in alchemy and enchanting at Arcane University?”

“Money,” Laina admitted with a careless shrug. “When you’re an orphan with few political connections or prospects for promotion within the Synod, being a pure theorist means you’ll be languishing as a Journeymage for several decades while less talented but more socially advantaged colleagues rise through the ranks, usually claiming credit for your work. Alchemy and enchanting paid the bills while my forays into the Nordic tombs of County Bruma built my academic credentials.”

“Tolfdir knows more about the magical practices of the ancient Atmorani, Farengar Secret-Fire’s specialty is the Dragon War and Onmund’s shaping up to be our resident expert on traditional Nord folk magic but Laina’s acknowledged as Tamriel’s foremost expert on post-Dragon War and pre-Talosite relics as pertaining to Nordic religious and funereal practice,” Enthir explained to Karliah. “She’s one of the few alive outside of High Hrothgar who can translate – roughly – Dragonish.”

“If you want a more exact translation, you’d better go see the Greybeards or Ulfric Stormcloak, and the former can’t speak without blasting someone into atoms and the latter isn’t inclined to share ‘sacred knowledge’ with a Dunmer,” Laina said with a sigh. “But there was a reason – aside from mechanical traps – why I dragged Brynjolf to Saarthal. We’d hoped to find something in Low Falmer that we could use to translate Gallus’ journal.”

Karliah sighed. “I didn’t expect you to. Calcelmo taught Gallus the Falmer script-“

“Low Falmer,” Laina corrected. “We have codices in High Falmer, the dialect of academia, science and bureaucracy, and Holy Falmer, the religious one. Urag, our librarian, has seen just enough Low Falmer to recognise the script but not enough to translate it.”

“Does it really matter?” the womer asked.

“Yes. Until Calcelmo started his research, most people didn’t bother with the snow elves’ colloquial dialect,” Enthir told her. “However, prying what will probably be the greatest academic coup of his career out of his withered hands will be difficult. The old bastard guards his work viciously.”

“How many times have you tried to steal it?” Laina asked dryly.

“Three,” Enthir confessed shamelessly.

“I’m beginning to see how you got kicked out of several universities,” Brynjolf observed.

“Gallus offered me a job in the Guild but I’m too old to live in a sewer,” Enthir said with a sigh.

“You knew him well, lad?”

“He was a dear friend of mine and a surprisingly astute pupil of academia... I was devastated when he was killed. I suppose that risk always coexisted with his line of work, I just never thought his luck would run out.” Enthir sighed again. “I caught him trying to break into my laboratory. I was about to show him the error of his ways when he made a curiously astute comment about my research notes. I was astounded and in turn it led to a conversation. Who'd have imagined it would lead to such a strong friendship?”

“From the sounds of it, Gallus was probably a Synod mage who realised the stipend was shit and decided to turn to the Guild because it was easier to procure coin and materials,” Laina mused. “Kynareth knows I saw it enough in Bruma.”

“He never told me,” Enthir said sadly.

Karliah pushed back her hair. “Then someone needs to go to Markarth and get this codex of Calcelmo’s.”

“I’ve got some deliveries in the Pale and Haafingar with a planned stopover in Hjaalmarch to check a lead on the Gauldur amulet out,” Laina said, chewing on her bottom lip. “If I go widdershins on the map, I could probably get to Markarth in about two or three weeks.”

“That long?” Karliah asked in dismay.

“Between our revered senior faculty having their collective head up their collective arse, the propensity of the local Nords to accuse the College of new and exciting perversions, and a personal disinclination to do any actual work, the opportunity to send out someone else to run those little errands too tedious for our exalted scholars but too sensitive or advanced for the apprentices is too rare for them to pass up,” Enthir said dryly. “Laina and I tend to find ourselves burdened quite often with them. Like sentient pack mules, honestly.”

“If you and Brynjolf want to go ahead to Markarth, be my guest,” Laina said with a shrug. “I’m happy to lend a hand, Karliah. Mercer Frey’s shitting over everything the Guild is supposed to stand for. But I can’t just drop everything to travel willy-nilly all over the province.”

“If any of the Guild recognises me, I’m dead,” Karliah said bluntly. “Brynjolf?”

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I’ve heard the stories about how well defended Calcelmo’s laboratory is, lass. _You_ might be nimble enough to get past all the traps, but _I’m_ not. I’ve got the feeling we need to do it Laina and Enthir’s way if it’s to be done at all.”

“Yes, I did hear you coming several rooms away at Snow Veil Sanctum,” Karliah reluctantly conceded. “But this could take months!”

“No more than a couple, barring any obstacles,” Laina assured her. “I’m pretty familiar with the fastest routes between Winterhold and the Hold capitals and march Legion-style. Brynjolf might have trouble keeping up with me.”

“I hate walking,” Brynjolf groaned. “Damn Mercer for that alone.”

…

By the time they reached Dawnstar, dusk had fallen and Brynjolf’s legs and back were screaming in agony. He’d considered himself in good shape until now, flexible and strong enough to climb almost anything and hold his own in a fight. But he’d never marched to what he realised was a Legionary’s pace until he followed Laina along Skyrim’s coastline, and even the frequent pauses as she harvested alchemical ingredients or fought off coastal predators weren’t enough time to rest.

“You do this all the time?” he wheezed as they passed an ominous tower that reeked of something seductively sweet yet oddly repelling.

“Yes. It’s not safe to stroll around on your own along the coastline. I usually spend a day or so in each Hold capital I visit to trade or attend to any arcane matters that require my attention.” She wrinkled her nose. “Skald’s a five-year-old brat in an eighty-year-old’s body. I think it’s only the fear of the local Stormcloak commander Frorkmar Banner-Torn that’s kept him on the Star Throne because everyone else just answers to Brina Merilis.”

The Windpeak Inn was small, drab and utterly typical for a village pub, but the weary gazes, slurred voices and the Dunmer Priest of Mara were unique. Laina paid for pallets on the floor, bowls of the omnipresent vegetable soup with slices of day-old bread and access to the house ale kegs, haggling over every septim as Brynjolf fantasised about sleeping for a week. Sadly, she only bargained for two nights.

“When you use the bathhouse, rub this into your muscles,” she advised, handing him a salve that smelt moderately unpleasant. “I know it reeks but a salve of dried sabre cat’s eye and ground skeever charcoal has restorative properties. Soak in the hot tub, stretch your muscles out and then use the salve.”

Brynjolf shuddered. “That’s disgusting, lass.”

“Yes, it’s not a pleasure to make,” she agreed with a wrinkled nose. “But I swear to you, you’ll be the better for it.”

So he was, his muscles settling into a dull ache with occasional whimpers of pain after the soak, stretch and salve, and he recovered enough to accept his bowl of soup and slice of bread with a tankard of foaming ale by his side. Laina was speaking to an elderly woman whose fingers were stained green as hers, trading a small bag of the ingredients collected today for some rather more exotic ones that she tucked into her alchemist’s satchel, and everyone else was complaining of poor sleep and exhaustion. Brynjolf finished his meal, feeling almost human, and waited for the locals to go home before rolling out his pallet and going to sleep.

The next morning, he was awoken by the sound of the barmaid sweeping out the pub’s common room and the innkeeper rattling pots and pans on the firepit. Laina, dishevelled from sleep, was already awake and spreading a meagre amount of snowberry jam on a slice of the same dry dark bread they’d been served with the soup last night. Erandur, the Priest of Mara, was seated with her and conversing in low tones – the word ‘exorcism’ came up. Brynjolf groaned and rolled off the pallet. He needed more of that salve.

After another bath (no wonder lowlander Nords were insane if they had to deal with this level of cold all the time) and more salve, he returned to the inn to find Laina gone. “She’s selling the pelts from yesterday to Rustleif, the local smith, and buying iron ore from Beitild,” offered Erandur helpfully. “She already sold the alchemical supplies to Frida and delivered something to Madena last night.”

Brynjolf groaned as the barmaid/bard, whose looks exceeded her singing voice from what he recalled last night, handed him a slice of bread and some snowberry jam with a coy smile. “What’s this about an exorcism, lad?”

Erandur’s expression went blank. He was hiding something. “A matter for priests and mages. Laina’s offered her help in cleansing Nightcaller Temple of its evil.”

“If you wait a day or two, Madena says Jarl Skald’s called on Jarl Ulfric, and Ulfric’s own son Prince Egil’s a-comin’ to help with the nightmares,” remarked the innkeeper. “He’s practically a Priest of Stendarr, they say.”

Erandur smiled slightly. “I’ve met Egil. I suspect if it wasn’t for his parents’ political ambitions, he’d have taken vows as a Vigilant.”

Brynjolf swallowed another groan. One of Ulfric and Sigdrifa’s brood here, and him unable to pick a pocket to collect on the wergild they owed him. Laina would probably express her displeasure if he did, and as much as he liked the woman, he had no desire to see the rough side of her tongue.

She returned by lunchtime, dropping a pouch that jingled into Brynjolf’s hand. “Your share,” she said. “We’re staying an extra day.”

“Nightcaller Temple?” he asked with a groan, pocketing the coin.

“Yes.” Laina sighed and sat down next to him. “As a College mage, it’s my duty to deal with things like this. Erandur and I will be handling it tomorrow.”

“Egil Storm-Born will be here in a day or so,” Erandur said from the other side of Brynjolf. “If you can spare the time, I’d advise you wait for him. He’s been trained as a Vigilant and this is right up their alley.”

Laina paused and then nodded. “Then I’ll spend the afternoon making a special kind of potion for the people of Dawnstar. Hawk’s egg and chicken’s egg. It’ll keep them asleep and give them some resistance to the magical effects of the artefact in Nightcaller Temple.”

“Hawk’s egg is rare,” Erandur noted.

“I’m an Alterationist. Give me one cracked egg and I can multiply the yolk as needed,” Laina said simply. “The people of Dawnstar will be sound asleep with no magicka to drain.”

Brynjolf passed over two septims for a tankard of the house ale. “Sounds unpleasant, lass. Are you sure you’re not biting off more than you can chew?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve handled something that’s most likely a Daedric artefact,” she said confidently.

He swallowed yet another groan. “Well, here’s to hoping none of us die.”

“You don’t have to come along,” Laina said.

“Of course I do, lass. Someone needs to be the common sense around here.”


	5. What Lies in Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for emotional trauma, death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. It’s not a visit to Dawnstar without Waking Nightmare, folks! Yes, I’ve quoted 1 Corinthians 13: 4-5. It’s one of the few Bible quotes I can appreciate and is suited for Mara.

It was apparent from the get-go which of his parents Egil Storm-Born, grandiosely named for such a modest nobleman, favoured in appearance and character. More athletic than bulky but still taller than average even by Nord standards, the high cheekbones, square jaw and shoulder-length dark hair were the Stormsword masculinised and given a somewhat rugged appearance through Ulfric’s influence, and his austere, somewhat rigid personality was softened by the teachings of Stendarr. He wore chainmail as easily as other men wore fabric and his hand rested on his blessed mace with the comfort of long experience. Whatever lingered in Nightcaller Temple was about to have a very bad day.

“How old is he?” Laina asked Erandur as they all traipsed up to Nightcaller Temple, Brynjolf bringing up the rear with a discontented face. She imagined both meddling in Daedric matters and working with the son of the people who’d killed his parents made this an unpleasant experience, but the energy roiling from the abandoned tower was too powerful for her and Erandur to handle alone. Pity another Vigilant hadn’t come along. Laina herself wasn’t best pleased to be reminded that life had gone on for certain people.

“Twenty, I think. Or maybe twenty-one,” Erandur replied. “Him and Bjarni are as different from their parents and each other as relatives can be. Egil’s very fair, very just and very merciful, but he’s prone to rigidity and intolerance. He’s respected, if not liked, in the Grey Quarter because while he applies justice equally, he also has a habit of calling the traditional religions of the Dunmer and Argonians ‘heathenism’.”

“That’s polite for a Vigilant, or someone who’s near enough to it,” Laina said wryly. “Most of them go in, mace swinging, and decry the Good Daedra, the Hist or Malacath as heresy.”

Erandur gave a short wry laugh. “I’m guessing there’s an experience or two there in that comment.”

“I know exactly three Conjuration spells, all of them relatively minor,” Laina admitted. “After I Conjured a hawk familiar to fight off an ogre, word got around and the Vigilants started bitching at me. The Synod wasn’t thrilled either but even they conceded a spell I learned before joining them could hardly be forgotten.”

“The typical familiar’s a wolf-spirit!” Erandur exclaimed.

“Granma was from the Reach and my personal totem is the hawk,” Laina explained.

“Don’t tell Egil that,” Brynjolf advised softly as the paladin-prince stomped uphill. “He thinks his parents were in the right to purge the hill-clans and the Ard Ri in a holy crusade, only that he disagrees with their methods. Just because he isn’t as batshit insane as the pair of them doesn’t mean he isn’t as bad.”

Laina grimaced. He was definitely Sigdrifa’s son alright.

“Thankfully, Bjarni isn’t so bad,” Erandur assured her. “Egil might be the preferred heir to Windhelm but I think Bjarni would be the better one. He’s a very cheerful, compassionate young man who’s more like Ulfric than Sigdrifa, but he doesn’t hate elves… or anyone else other than the Empire. His main quarrel is the fact that the Empire is forcing everyone to worship the gods they approve of.”

“How does he reconcile that with the Markarth Incident or Sigdrifa’s persecution of the pre-Talosite Nord faith?” Laina asked in disbelief.

“He’s gotten into fights with his parents about it. If it wasn’t for the fact that he stands to inherit Falkreath should Egil get Windhelm and his popularity with the rank and file Stormcloaks, they’d have disowned him years ago.”

“I thought priests were supposed to be politically neutral, lad,” Brynjolf observed.

“We are. It doesn’t mean we don’t pay attention to what could affect our flock and work.”

Once inside Nightcaller Temple, they beheld the Skull of Corruption and the prone bodies of the Vaermina cultists and Orcs affected by what Erandur called the Miasma when he confessed to being a former member of it. “I fled because I was a coward,” he admitted tersely. “Mara forgave me and granted me a ritual to banish it.”

Much to Laina’s surprise, Egil nodded in sympathy. “So you’ve come back to atone for your past sins. It’s rare to see that in a Dunmer.”

“It’s almost like traits transcend race and culture,” Laina said dryly.

Erandur smiled ruefully. “I was never culturally Dunmer. The cult took me as a child from the Grey Quarter. Even years after I returned, I never felt quite at home.”

“As a Nord raised in the Imperial Workhouse, I know exactly how you feel, and I knew where I came from,” Laina agreed sympathetically. “Didn’t stop me from learning more about my culture when I had the chance.”

“Perhaps.” Erandur sighed. “We need to enter the library and alchemy wing. I suspect it’s going to take the Dreamstride to bypass that barrier and I need to find the book about it.”

Fighting Orcs and cultists maddened by the Miasma wasn’t pleasant but there was little choice when no one had knowledge of the Calm spell, not even Laina. She’d studied the Illusion theory on the sly, learning enough to cast quietly, but she had no actual knowledge of spells. When she got back to Winterhold, she should probably rectify that.

Egil was as implacable as Sigdrifa, brushing aside cultist spell and Orcish weapon with equal disdain, and his blessed mace left crushed bone and pulped flesh in its wake. Erandur fought with a combination of fire spell and holy mace, switching to Healing spell when one of them was wounded, and surrounded himself with Ancestor’s Wrath to make certain no enemy survived the encounter. Brynjolf slipped in and out of shadows, cutting throats with ease while Laina focused on lightning spells and using her stalhrim blade whenever an enemy got too close.

They ransacked the library and alchemy wing, Laina pleased to discover several rare ingredients preserved by stasis spells, and found both book and the Dreamstride potion. It was then Brynjolf received the unpleasant news he’d have to imbibe the brew because Erandur and Egil were priests and Laina’s affiliation with Kynareth was too strong. Only cultists of Vaermina or the unaligned could use it.

He drank and vanished. They ran to the barrier and waited hopefully.

…

Experiencing Erandur’s memories of when he was Casimir the cultist wasn’t pleasant but it gave Brynjolf a lot more sympathy for the man. Veren and Thorek sounded absolutely crazy, the Orcs of Mashog Kahn were in their rights to kick the cult’s arse, and Brynjolf would have taken the chance to escape them all if he’d been in Erandur’s position.

He plucked the lesser soul gem from its holder after pulling the chain, dispelling the barrier, and handed it to Laina. “I’m sure you can find some use for that, lass,” he croaked.

She handed him a small vial. “Beehive husk and grass pod,” she said. “It’ll dispel the rest of the potion.”

This one didn’t taste so bad, mostly like the memory of a honey-nut treat, and the remaining grogginess disappeared. “If I never have to do that again, lass, it’ll be too soon.”

A few more cultists and Orcs were in their way before they reached the inner sanctum where Veren and Thorek stood ready to guard the Skull of Corruption. “Casimir,” sneered the Nord. “I see you’ve come with friends. Decided to purge your shame by killing us?”

“I was scared once,” the Dunmer said soberly. “But Lady Mara forgave me. You could allow her to do the same and win free of Vaermina.”

“What other Aedra would want anything to do with so worthless a coward,” Veren said contemptuously. “We will not abandon Lady Vaermina!”

“Then you die, which is the least of what you deserve for inflicting torment on the good people of Dawnstar,” Egil said icily. Aye, he was Sigdrifa’s son alright.

“If you think I’m scared of some boy-Vigilant-“ Thorek suddenly clutched his throat, face crimsoning. Beside him, Veren acted in much the same way, struggling for breath. Then a sudden double-crack saw their heads lolling at an unnatural angle.

Laina opened her fists, the turquoise magic in them fading away. “I smelt giant’s toe fungus, spider egg and creep cluster on the mer’s dagger. One strike with that and we’d have fallen into a deep slumber, where the Skull of Corruption could harvest our dreams. Sorry for skipping the preliminaries, but I didn’t want to take any more chances given Vaermina cultists’ skill at alchemy.”

“You have a good nose… and an impressive command of Telekinesis,” Egil said slowly.

“It isn’t that hard to snap a neck when you know how the bones work,” Laina said modestly.

She sat down on a bench with more haste than usual, her face exhausted. “Banish the damned thing, Erandur. I need a damned drink.”

Brynjolf settled down beside her, glad for the respite, and Egil sat down across from them as Erandur ascended the stairs, knelt and began to pray to Mara.

**_“Erandur’s lying, you know,”_** whispered an oddly sweet but dissonant soprano. **_“When he gains access to the Skull, he’ll attack you. Kill him, take the Skull for yourself, and turn it on the Storm-Brat. Its power will be yours to command.”_**

Brynjolf’s eyes began to droop down. He was exhausted. A day of walking, fighting through a tower full of madmen, the emotional drain of having to keep his mouth shut around the son of the Stormcloaks who murdered his parents…

He saw himself with the Skull in hand, draining the will out of Mercer and dispatching him with a laugh, breaking the Stormcloaks so utterly that Talos himself winked out of existence, teaching Maven Black-Briar who was really in charge of the Guild. He became Guildmaster and the king in the shadows, stealing dreams as easily as he once pocketed septims, becoming the most powerful man in Skyrim…

**_“Yes! Do it!”_** exalted the voice. **_“Vaermina commands you!”_**

The scent of ozone and hawk feathers intruded on the dreams and the visions. **_“No,”_** whispered another voice, this one the mixture of a storm wind and a hawk’s scream. **_“There is no power that Vaermina possesses that you do not already have, Dovahkiin. What price power when you are faced with the empty eyes and weary hearts of those you care for?”_**

 ** _“Love is an illusion,”_** spoke the voice of Mercer Frey. **_“Grab what you can. Every heart is corrupt and the only truth you can trust is the dirt that everyone hides. Imagine what dirt lies in a man’s dreams…”_**

 ** _“Power is important,”_** agreed a stern baritone, sounding rather like Egil but older and more certain. **_“The power to right wrongs, to forebear from doing harm. That is true power, not the dreams stolen from the shadows of slumber.”_**

 ** _“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs,”_** whispered the dimly recalled voice of his mother.

**_“Do it! Vaermina commands it!”_** shrieked the soprano.

The dissonance between that demand and the seductive vision startled Brynjolf from his doze. Across the room, Egil was white-faced, his nostrils flaring and his eyes bright with fury. Beside him, Laina’s fists were clenched, the knuckles white and the nails drawing blood. Where Vaermina tried to seduce him, she disgusted the staunch Egil, and only the gods knew what Laina was enduring.

He reached out and took the hand nearest to him, prying Laina’s fingers open and entwining his through them. “I know, lass,” he murmured. “It’s hard, I know.”

The strong, capable, unflappable Laina wailed softly and buried her face in his shoulder to cry heartbreakingly into the leather. That sound of raw grief and pain was enough to shatter the last of Vaermina’s temptation and he wrapped an arm around Laina to let her weep, anger sullen embers in his heart.

Finally, with a burst of white light that smelt of lavender and wheat, the Skull vanished and Erandur sagged in exhaustion on the podium. Egil stood up and was up there, golden light and chimes filling the air as he helped the Priest of Mara to his feet. “That was unpleasant, to say the least,” he said hoarsely.

“If Vaermina can’t sway you through your dreams come true, she’ll try to break you with nightmares,” Erandur agreed weakly. “But it’s done. No doubt the Skull of Corruption will emerge to bother someone else, but it’s been banished for at least a century, and this place is now consecrated to the Aedra.”

Egil nodded, helping Erandur down the stairs. “I’m glad I answered Skald’s summons. I think my presence here made the difference.”

Laina stirred, wiping at her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. You insult both Brynjolf and I.”

“You could have worded that better,” Erandur agreed in weary amusement. “Laina and Brynjolf have endured traumas that would break you. Stendarr’s mercy can be a harsh thing, necessary when confronting a blatant evil such as Vaermina, but Mara’s grace can extend in places where harshness would only harden a heart against love – like that of a Daedric cultist wallowing in his own misery and cowardice. Better to be supple and bend than to be hard and shatter. Love is patient and love is kind.”

Egil, to his credit, flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“Hard and sharp can be brittle,” Laina said softly. “Brittle can break with the right amount of pressure in the wrong place.”

“You’re a Vigilant,” Brynjolf drawled with faked nonchalance. “Everyone knows that Vigilants receive a stick up their arse at some point in their training.”

“It’s part of the consecration ceremony,” Egil quipped with the ghost of a smile. “All that blessed oil to hand, you know.”

Erandur chuckled weakly. “If Keeper Carcette learns you just made a joke, she might excommunicate you, Egil.”

“No, that would be my mother. Carcette actually has a pretty good sense of humour.” Egil helped Erandur to sit on the bench, raking a hand through his dark hair in a gesture not unlike Laina’s. “What will you do now?”

“I was going to remain here,” Erandur admitted with a yawn. “But I don’t think that’s what Mara wants.”

“The Grey Quarter could use a priest to tend to the heathen,” Egil suggested tentatively.

“Lad, some day you’re going to call the wrong person a heathen and get punched in the face, and it’ll be the least you deserve,” Brynjolf warned him wearily. “Keep to yourself and let us sin in peace.”

“Winterhold has greater need of a cleric,” Laina said, stirring. “There’s only so much I can do as an alchemist, our resident healer doesn’t like to leave the College if she can help it, and Korir needs some good, honest spiritual advice that doesn’t let him brood on how impoverished the Hold is… and what he owes the Stormcloaks for the scraps they throw his way.”

Egil’s mouth tightened. “You support the Empire?”

“I’m resigned to the Empire as the lesser of two evils,” Laina corrected. “If Windhelm is indicative of a Stormcloak-ruled Skyrim with rubbish in its alleys, a killer stalking the streets unimpeded and readily curable illnesses plaguing its populace because all the medicine, food and fuel’s diverted to the army, then to Oblivion with Talos and let those problems be solved.”

The young crusader flushed. “My parents could pay more attention to Windhelm’s folk,” he conceded. “Bjarni and I do what we can.”

“I’ll go to Winterhold, I think,” Erandur said with a sigh. “Mara’s grace is needed more there.”

“Thanks. When we get back to Dawnstar, I’ll write a note for you to give to Faralda. You might just find yourself teaching apprentices when not tending to your flock,” Laina said with a grateful smile. “I think Korir will welcome the prestige that a cleric of Mara brings… and the potential profit when all those coastal Nords realise they won’t have to travel to Riften to get married.”

Erandur smiled. “Something for everyone.”


	6. Sins of the Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Poor Bryn and Laina; I’m so cruel to them, aren’t I?

If Laina never met Vaermina again, it would be too soon. Being tempted with all the power dreams possessed had been one thing, but having the Daedric Prince of Nightmares throw those three days at Cloud Ruler Temple and the attendant horrors at her wrung her dry. It was only that kernel of resistance at the core of her being, the refusal to lay down and die to please any number of people, that gave Laina the strength to resist those visions.

She woke early from habit, padding barefoot into the bathhouse attached to the Windpeak with a bar of soap she’d made herself and claiming the big wooden tub while everyone else was asleep or eating breakfast. Lavender and tundra cotton filled the air as she scrubbed herself clean, washing away the grime of yesterday, and then turned her attention to her travelling robes and three days’ worth of underwear. The ritual of cleanliness soothed her in ways she couldn’t articulate as she used magic to heat the water and agitate the laundry. Perhaps it was the simplicity with which she could banish stains, even if it was rather harder for bad memories.

More magic wrung the water from the laundry and then dried it free of wrinkles, an application of Sun’s Fire that only Danica Pure-Spring would think of. There were spells that could keep someone and their garments pristine, as there were cantrips that could untangle hair and pleasantly scent the body to dispel odour, but Laina reserved those for emergencies as they could drain magicka quite quickly. It was generally easier to recover stamina quicker than magicka, so she stuck to physical methods and saved her energy for more important things.

She stretched out her muscles until the aches of yesterday’s fighting were gone, redressed in clean dry robes, and returned to the Windpeak for breakfast. Already the effects of the Skull were fading, Dawnstar’s residents looking more sprightly and yawning less. It was Erandur’s opinion they’d recover fully from Vaermina’s influence.

Egil’s cavalry, twenty-five strong and mounted on the sturdy shaggy horses they bred in the Old Holds, were camped just outside the town in a neat double-row of tents that would have pleased the most stringent Legion Quaestor. The paladin-prince shared quarters with them, declining Skald’s offer of hospitality at the White Hall, the only concession to his rank a tent to himself. While not equal to the famed horse-archers of the Alik’r Desert, it was obvious that Egil’s squad was an elite force as they practiced with bow and blade from horseback. From a glance, it was obviously intended to counter the Bruma Fourth’s famed rapid-response light cavalry unit.

She should probably hate Egil. He was as inflexible and self-righteous as their mother. But the difference between the Stormsword and the paladin was that Egil had a sense of humour and far more compassion. That humanised him quite a bit, even if he was an arse.

Laina sighed and walked back into the pub. It was best to not get attached to someone who’d wind up on a cross in a few months.

Brynjolf was awake, grumbling through a breakfast of toast and jam. Given Thieves tended to be nocturnal, she supposed bright and cheerful wasn’t a thing they did in the morning. Laina smiled wryly; she still followed Legion hours and so their cycles didn’t always match up.

“More walking today, lass?” he groaned as she sat down, helping herself to some bread and jam. Meals were fairly rudimentary at the Windpeak because Thoring was too incapacitated by grief to do anything fancier than vegetable soup and Karita’s cooking was as bad as her singing. Most of the miners, fisherfolk and sailors drank their meals anyway.

“If we want to reach Hjaalmarch by dark, yes,” she said sympathetically. “I’ve made up more muscle salve to get you through the next few days. By the time we reach Haafingar, your muscles will be used to the exercise.”

Brynjolf groaned and buried his face in his hands.

They followed the coast before reaching the edge of the swamps that comprised the better part of Hjaalmarch. “We’re near Folgunther,” Laina told Brynjolf quietly as they slogged along, a judicious use of magic keeping the blood-sucking bugs away. “That’s said to be the burial place of Gauldur’s second son Mikrul.”

“Brother to the bastard we fought at Saarthal?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

“One and the same. Gauldur was a Reachman who became Arch-Mage and Mage-Thane to King Harald. Breton-dominant, I think, but his name became synonymous with magic and the aftermath of his sons’ rampage began the decline in the prestige and respect of the Clever Craft,” she answered with a sigh. “I don’t think Jyrik was buried with that damned orb by accident.”

“Sure, let’s go irritate the draugr of a lad who killed his dear old da,” Brynjolf said dryly.

“You can stay in Morthal if you want.”

The Thief snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, lass. Good loot in the tombs and no one gets irritates if you cut a draugr’s throat.”

They found the remains of a camp just outside Folgunther and after seeing the dirt on the tent and pallet, it was easy to conclude that the owner wasn’t coming back any time soon. Laina swept the dirt away with a wave of her hand and kindled ghost-flames in the firepit to save herself the trouble of foraging for wood in the bogs.

“Where’d you get that chicken?” she blurted as Brynjolf produced the hapless bird, its neck neatly snapped, from his backpack.

“The Windpeak,” he admitted shamelessly, starting to pluck it. “Consider it the reward for saving them from Vaermina. I was getting a bit sick of vegetable soup, bread and jam.”

“I’m guessing you stole it,” she observed dryly.

“Of course, lass. Thoring would have been difficult if I’d tried to buy it.” He carefully set the feathers aside, as fletchers would pay a septim for a double-handful of good straight wing-feathers and the rejected ones could be used for quills. “After yesterday, I think we deserve a hot meal.”

She was hardly going to argue the point with him, not when he started to rub a handful of elves’ ear and frost mirriam into the skin and stuff it with the remains of the bread from Dawnstar and snowberries. Instead she went through the abandoned belongings of the missing camper.

Aside from a journal, there wasn’t much, and the journal painted the picture of its owner… and confirmed the presence of the second fragment of the Gauldur Amulet at Folgunthur. “Charming chap,” she said after perusing the book. “I suspect we’ll find him as draugr chow in the tomb.”

“At least we’ll be able to use a bit more stealth here than at Saarthal,” Brynjolf agreed as he put the chicken into a pot and laid it in the ghost-fire. One advantage of Conjured flames was that they didn’t burn you. “Old Tolfdir’s bones creaked more than the draugr’s, I think.”

“He’s just over two hundred years old, you know that?” she observed. “The man’s at the pinnacle of knowledge for Alteration and Restoration, and if you know what you’re doing, a mage can extend their lifespan by two or three times without resorting to Daedric pacts.”

“Aye. My granma knew similar magics, but she was a Hag of Nocturnal if my memories are right.” Brynjolf watched the chicken intently. “They took me the year before I’d have gotten my clan tattoos. Da died fighting Ulfric at the gates of Markarth and the Stormsword cut my mother down at Karthwasten for supporting the Ard Ri.”

“And yet you helped Egil exorcise Nightcaller Temple,” she said softly.

“No, lass. I helped _you_. Egil just came along for the ride.”

“He’s not what I thought he’d be,” she said after a moment’s silence. “He’s better than that.”

“Aye, I was surprised too.” Brynjolf sighed and began to peel potatoes to be roasted for dinner. “You’ve got some personal experience of the Stormsword?”

Laina sighed deeply and stared into the flames. “Do you know that despite what she and Ulfric say, she was married once before?”

“Aye, to some Redguard lad named Rustem. I think he’s with the Dark Brotherhood these days. Delvin handles that as part of the Night shift. I was Day Master.”

“Well…” Laina sighed again. “They had a kid together. That kid was me.”

He dropped the knife and potato. _“What?”_

“You could earn yourself a pretty penny and a pardon for anything short of high treason from the Empire with this knowledge,” Laina continued softly, watching the flames. She wasn’t ready to see his face. “Rustem Aurelius is the son of the traitor Arius Aurelius and is considered a traitor himself because he executed Mede’s cousin Decius. His head’s worth a cool ten thousand septims, not attached to his body.”

“Pfft, I wouldn’t sell out a Dark Brother,” Brynjolf scoffed. “It’s professional courtesy, lass.”

Despite herself, she smiled. “I suppose it would be. Well, Rustem was in Hammerfell when Arius launched his idiotic rebellion at the tail end of the Great War, and Sigdrifa was off rescuing Ulfric. That meant when Mede let the Thalmor sack Cloud Ruler Temple, there was no one to save Aurelia Callaina, the offspring of their rather nasty little union. I spent three days in those ruins and…”

She stared into the fire. “I was rescued by a Thalmor Justicar named Ondolemar of all things. I gave my name as Laina when asked, because Elenwen and Nurancar had boasted about how Arius’ actions led to Mede signing the White-Gold Concordat and the banning of Talos worship. I knew that if I was lucky, I’d be in prison for the rest of my life because… Mede had reason to fear the descendants of the Hero of Kvatch.”

“So you did the sensible thing, gave them a false name and kept your head down,” Brynjolf said softly.

“Given I was left holding the bag in a sense, yes,” she admitted. “My mother swanned off to Skyrim, married Ulfric for Talos, and bred herself a couple true Nord sons instead of a sickly half-Redguard daughter. I’m not even sure if she remembers me.”

“Imperials keep very strict birth records,” Brynjolf noted in a neutral tone.

“If Mother hadn’t overthrown Granma during the Markarth Incident, Catriona would never have come to Bruma during her exile and taught me some of the Reacher magics,” Laina said softly. “There is a… charm, if you will, worked into my clan-tattoos. Those who know me as I am will recognise me, but those who don’t know of my existence won’t see the resemblance. Ondolemar, who has his own secrets, got the birth certificate destroyed.”

“I’m guessing he was a Blade, wasn’t he?”

“I… yes.”

Brynjolf sighed. “If your mother died, I’d dance a jig on her corpse, lass. My Ma Eodwyn was a good woman whose only crime was to be a Nord who loved a Reachman. My Da was Gillam of the Gates and Madanach’s own adviser. Both of them ran the Markarth branch of the Guild.”

“Dance a jig for me,” Laina said in all sincerity. “I’m Nord enough that I won’t work towards my mother’s destruction – it’s one of the reasons why I left the Anvil Third – but I won’t weep if she dies.”

He nodded. “I don’t blame you, lass. But I need to sleep on it.”

“I understand,” she agreed softly.

…

They didn’t talk much and once dinner was done, Laina cast runes around the camp to protect them, curled up in a ball in her bedroll and went to sleep, leaving Brynjolf to brood by the purple ghost-fire. She’d dumped a lot of information on him to process and he didn’t want to go over it with her awake, not when he could tell there was a lot of pain from those memories. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t hate her. But he needed to reassess everything.

It made a lot of sense and neatly answered some questions he’d had from the time spent rifling through Stormcloak records every year or so for dirt on Ulfric and Sigdrifa. There was quite a bit of dirt, but since the Stormsword didn’t feel shame and Ulfric’s followers would excuse anything short of a Daedric pact from him, there was no blackmail potential. Time or two he’d considered delivering the information anonymously to Castle Dour for the Imperials, but since there was no tangible profit in it, there didn’t seem much point. Whoever ruled, the Reach would suffer under a cruel set of overlords and soldiers would seek to crush the Guild into the dirt for the crime of existing.

_Pity Maven won’t diversify into mining,_ he thought wistfully as he mixed up some flatbread to bake in the embers while he slept. Dinner had been quite good and it was a shame Laina hadn’t been able to enjoy it as she should. _I wouldn’t mind seeing the Silver-Bloods crushed._

Brooding on the revelations of the evening, he fell asleep, dreaming of fire and blood and black wings in the snow.


	7. Morthal's Troubles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. I don’t even know when the dragon’s gonna rock up, folks. He’s taking his time.

“I really need to get a decent-sized soul gem and enchant your daggers if we’re going to keep on doing this,” Laina observed with some exasperation as Brynjolf pulled his weapons from the draugr’s corpse. “Fire and health drain, I think.”

“Aye, would making killing them easier,” he agreed. “Of course, lass, we could just avoid tombs from here on in.”

“After here, we won’t need to worry about it for a bit,” she promised. “Gauldur’s third son is buried in the Rift near Ivarstead, I think.”

Brynjolf groaned. “I know the tomb. It’s either the one on the edge of town or the one on the lake. And there’s bears.”

“I could use a new cloak for winter,” she said lightly.

After her revelations, they had carefully avoided the mention of Sigdrifa or anything Stormcloak-related as they made their way through Folgunther. There’d been the requisite draugr and traps both magical and mechanical, but for a change of pace there’d been spiders. Now they were coming up to the puzzle door, which customarily contained the inner sanctum and the king-draugr. One glance at the ivory claw in her hand gave her the clues to opening it.

Compared to his brother Jyrik, Mikrul Gauldurson was only mildly unpleasant, his honour-guard of draugr thralls collapsing when the light died from his unholy gaze. He carried a unique black-stained ancient Nord sword and the second fragment of Gauldur’s Amulet that she hung around her neck. The writ of sealing wasn’t anything new, judging by the runes she really needed to learn how to decipher.

The grave goods and Word Wall weren’t anything spectacular but they collected them and a charcoal rubbing anyway. If nothing else, Laina was producing the most complete codex of Dovahzul outside of High Hrothgar. Pity she hadn’t found any Low Falmer script she could try and decipher from context in the dragon’s tongue.

It was afternoon when they reached Morthal and Laina immediately sought out Falion, the resident wizard and a former faculty member at the College, while Brynjolf went to the pub to rent a room. Phinis Gestor claimed the man was his superior in Conjuration – and when she saw the shrine to Tu’whacca in the corner, she could well believe it. “Your delivery from Phinis,” she said, handing over a small package. “He sends his regards.”

Falion smiled slightly. “That’s prompt. The College usually takes a few months to get anything done.”

“I was heading this way anyway.” Laina sighed. “How much for Conjuration training? I can barter some powerful potions for it.”

Two hours – and three Conjuration and magic resistance potions later – she was rejoining Brynjolf in the Moorside Inn. Dusk had fallen and a pale beauty with long black hair and excessive cleavage had draped herself on the bar next to him, her low tones coaxing and seductive. Laina supposed a man like Brynjolf didn’t come often to Morthal but it nettled her all the same.

“I said, lass, I was taken,” Brynjolf told her as Laina approached. “Don’t you have a man back home?”

The woman laughed sweetly. “What Hroggar doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”

“You’re unbelievable,” the innkeeper said. “First you seduce Hroggar right after his family died in that fire, then I saw you sweet-talkin’ Benor the other day, and now you want the Reacher lad? Way you’re going, Alva, you’ll run out of men in Hjaalmarch.”

“Lass!” Brynjolf exclaimed, standing up to warmly embrace Laina and plant a kiss on her lips. “I was beginning to think you’d run off with that Falion lad.”

“I live with mages, I work with mages, I talk shop with mages,” Laina said wryly as she kissed him back. “I love you because you _aren’t_ a mage.”

“Damn and here I thought my brother might have finally gotten himself a woman,” laughed the innkeeper. “Name’s Jonna. I keep the Moorside-“

Her introduction was interrupted by something that sounded like an unholy union between a seagull with laryngitis, a Dremora with constipation and a drummer with the rhythm of a drunken centipede wearing Legion boots dancing erratically on a shield balanced on a three-legged Dwemer automaton suffering motion sickness.

“-And that’s Lurbuk, the resident bard,” Jonna finished with a heartfelt sigh. “If I had customers, I’d chase him away.”

“I see,” Laina said with a wince. She thought her singing was bad but Kynareth’s winds, Lurbuk made her sound like a world-class opera singer who could hit the coloratura effortlessly.

“Lad!” Brynjolf said, producing a flawless sapphire with the snap of his fingers and some impressive sleight of hand. “Me and the missus would like some quiet because your fine music would distract from the romance. Would this suffice for you to go practice your lute elsewhere?”

“You don’t want any romantic music?” Lurbuk asked mournfully, eyeing the sapphire with undisguised greed.

“No. I prefer the melody of my lady’s sighs as I play _her_ like a lute,” Brynjolf told him with a wink and a nod, flipping the sapphire in his direction.

With more deftness than he showed in his music, Lurbuk caught the gemstone and tugged a dreadlock. “As you wish, my patron. Alva, would you like to walk with me on this beautiful night?”

Alva’s smile was edged and her eyes gleamed amber in the firelight. “I think I would.”

They left and Jonna sighed in relief. “Praise Mowhra. I was about to pray for him to become mute.”

Laina laughed wryly. “My singing isn’t much better but at least I can hold a rhythm.”

Brynjolf chuckled. “So what’s for dinner? It’s been a long dreary day stabbing draugr to death.”

Dinner was fish stew, bread made from swamp grains and a house ale that wasn’t too bad. Well-fed and exhausted, they sought their pallets and were asleep almost before they’d laid down.

…

Brynjolf was visiting the privy behind the village pub when he saw a boot sticking out of the water. The last time he’d seen that boot, it had been attached to Lurbuk. And its owner had been very much alive, not bobbing up and down in the bog as mudcrabs nipped at his carcass.

Blasting the mudcrabs to death with Flames, which he’d learned to make less draining after reading a couple books in the Arcaneum, he waded through the rushes to examine it. Lurbuk was a pale toad-green, paler than even a dead Orc ought to be. In fact, there was a remarkable lack of blood on his carcass, and it looked slightly desiccated.

“Laina!” he bellowed. “Lurbuk’s dead!”

The mage, clad in her shift and breeks, came running out with a Redguard wearing soft comfortable robes behind her. If he hadn’t seen the local sorcerer walk in for breakfast, he might have made a few assumptions, but he knew Laina better than that.

“Vampire,” she said grimly, glancing at Falion. “Shit.”

“I’m guessing us pretending to be lovers saved me from becoming dinner,” Brynjolf said shakily.

“Alva. This… puts some of her past behaviour into context,” Falion said grimly. “Hroggar’s family died in a suspicious fire, Thonnir’s wife Laelette vanished and Alva swore she’d gone to join the Stormcloaks…”

“We better let the Jarl know,” Laina said, passing a hand over her face. “Let me get dressed. I don’t think Idgrod needs to see my cleavage.”

Given that Laina was compactly buxom under her shift, Brynjolf supposed that the sight would be lost on Idgrod, who was known to be beset by visions.

“You’re certain?” the old Jarl, hunched in her driftwood throne under a fur wrap, demanded intently.

“It fits with what we know about her behaviour,” Falion told her.

“But if I allow someone to just kick her door in and we’re wrong, it could make things even worse around here,” Idgrod said with a sigh.

“If you’ll look the other way, Jarl Idgrod, I can nip in and take a quick look,” Brynjolf offered. “I’m discreet _and_ subtle.”

“Those traits will serve you well in the coming days,” Idgrod said cryptically. “Go then. Bring back evidence of Alva’s treachery.”

Brynjolf could have picked any lock in Morthal with a toenail clipping, so sneaking inside after Hroggar went to work was child’s play. Laina and Falion were examining Lurbuk’s carcass in Lami’s alchemy shop, which also served as the local infirmary and temporary corpse storage. As he expected, Alva was dead to the world in her dainty little coffin, and so he filched her journal and exited as quietly as he entered.

Idgrod read the journal, swore rather graphically in Reacher – invoking at least five of the Left-Hand Gods in a way that had Laina blinking – and gave the order for Aslfur and five guardsmen to execute the vampire immediately. Judging by the scratches and ash on the squad when they returned half an hour later, Alva had put up a fight.

“Now we must deal with Morvath,” the Jarl grated. “Aslfur, I want the militia gathered by dawn. We will purge this infection from Hjaalmarch with fire and steel.”

“Here’s the bit where you ask us to accompany them,” Brynjolf said with a sigh.

“Yes, kinsman, it is,” Idgrod said bluntly. “You and your woman are experienced in the ways of dealing with the undead. Your presence will reduce casualties.”

“Then we might as well go in alone,” Laina said with equal candour. “Most of your militia would lose a fight with a mudcrab, let alone a coven of vampires. Have Falion and Lami give me what supplies I need, let me enchant Brynjolf’s weapons, and we will make shorter work of them than you and all the warriors of Morthal ever could.”

Idgrod smiled slightly. “I knew you would say that. As you wish.”

Brynjolf sighed. Getting dragged into every Hold’s problems was becoming rather irritating.

The next morning, armed to the teeth with scrolls that harmed the undead and newly enchanted weaponry, he and Laina followed a beaten path that skirted the bogs to a cave. “Is it really appropriate to be picking random things now?” he asked exasperatedly as she helped herself to round globe things and thin red things and twisted roots.

“Some of these ingredients grow nowhere else in Tamriel,” she said calmly. “I’d be a fool to pass up the chance. Besides, a vampire’s torpor is heaviest at noon.”

The vampires had anticipated a potential daytime attack by posting bandit-thralls at the entrance but Laina’s ice spikes took care of them. Brynjolf noted that she could cast quietly, a thing he didn’t even know was possible until he’d seen her in action. He really should ask her for the trick of it.

For his part, he crept in close to each sleeping vampire and cut their throat with a slash straight down the jugular, making sure of them with a burst of Flames. He should get that sun-fire spell of Laina’s while he was learning how to cast quietly, since he seemed to be creeping around the lairs of the undead a lot more. Burglarising the dead wasn’t much safer than robbing the living, to be honest, though killing them (again) was a lot less awkward.

Only Morvath put up a fight, rising from his seat and making a hooking motion with one hand to drain Laina’s blood from her with a smug smile. The mage clutched at her throat, olive-bronze complexion paling with fear and blood loss, swaying helplessly. Morvath was so busy enjoying the experience of slowly killing Laina that he missed Brynjolf sneaking around to slit his throat so deeply he was almost decapitated.

Laina collapsed, ashen-white, and Brynjolf ran to her side. Rummaging in her satchel and sniffing the contents of each vial produced the mixture she’d fed to him at Snow Veil Sanctum. He poured it down her throat, followed by the most powerful healing potion he could find, and then he picked her up. He needed to find a bed.

There was a bed – occupied by one more vampire that he simply blasted to ash with Flames – and he placed her inside it. Then he curled about her – for warmth’s sake, of course – and knew nothing until the next day.


	8. Dragon Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abandonment, religious conflict, imprisonment and war crimes. The fun never ends when you’re a Skyrim protagonist.

“You’ve got your ‘let’s desecrate an ancient tomb’ expression.”

“That obvious, is it?” Laina asked ruefully as she dribbled some honey into her porridge. After dealing with Morvath, their meals and beds were on the Jarl’s tab – a good thing because it had taken three days for her to recover from nearly dying at the vampire’s hands. Brynjolf’s quick thinking with her cures and keeping her warm during that night likely saved her life. Waking up with him curled around her on a bed covered in vampire ashes had certainly been an experience.

“We’ve been travelling together for a week, lass. I think we’re getting used to each other’s quirks.” Brynjolf accepted a cup of snowberry juice from Jonna. “Which tomb are we looking at?”

“Ustengrav,” Laina answered after a mouthful of porridge. “It’s the burial site of the Greybeards and supposedly contains some test the Dragonborn’s supposed to pass in order to receive their blessing. I don’t think we’ll find any Low Falmer script…”

“…But you’ll find more Dragonish.” Brynjolf sipped from his cup. “I hope there’s no Shouting ghosts.”

“Shouting draugr are a possibility,” she admitted.

“Wonderful,” he groaned.

It turned out that a group of necromancers had decided Shouting draugr would make for great thralls, the Shouting draugr disagreed strenuously, and so they came across both groups killing each other inside the unassuming mound. Laina, who’d spent her forced convalescence learning Calm and Fury from tomes Falion had given her, used those spells liberally as they went deeper into the burial complex. There were a few draugr and skeletons able to shake off her Illusion magic, which was still mostly theoretical, but this tomb-robbing expedition was _much_ easier because of those two spells.

“I need to learn me some Illusion,” Brynjolf remarked as they approached the Word Wall near the waterfall. “Gallus had a knack for it but it was something I never really bothered with.”

“Being a Reacher, you’ll find magic easier to learn than most Nords,” she told him. “That’s what my granma told me, at least.”

“I’ll get that rubbing for you,” he promised. “I hope Calcelmo will agree to let us translate the journal.”

“Given that the Atmorani were contemporary with the latter Dwemer and Falmer situations, it’s probable we’ll be able to trade codices,” Laina agreed. “But Calcelmo is both stubborn and paranoid. It could be difficult.”

Brynjolf collected the charcoal rubbing for her as she investigated behind the waterfall, finding a little chest of goodies tucked away behind it. Then they went to the strange pillars that lit up and opened gates but were too far away to reach in time before they closed again. Exasperated, Laina cheated by pulling the chains she could see through them, and they reached the next chamber.

There were fire traps. There were spiders. There were draugr. But when they emerged into the final chamber, where a stone sarcophagus sat in splendid isolation with a carved horn resting on a hand-shaped pedestal, she understood. “That’s the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller!” she exclaimed in awe. “It belonged to the founder of the Greybeards.”

“That’d be worth a bit to the right collector,” Brynjolf mused as he walked over to examine it. “Like that ship. Delvin collects these sorts of things.”

“I’m not sure the Greybeards would approve of Delvin – whoever he is – getting his grubby little mitts on that,” Laina warned.

“And? Fuck them, lass. They’re not around to care.” Brynjolf took the horn from its pedestal.

Predictably, a pair of draugr emerged to dispute possession, and both of them were powerful enough to prove immune to her newly acquired Illusion spells. Sun’s Fire and Brynjolf’s enchanted daggers handled them though.

Brynjolf replaced the horn hastily and then gasped as contrails of pure white-gold light surrounded him. “FEIM,” he breathed, becoming ghostlike for about half a minute.

Laina dropped her jaw and the loot she’d been carrying.

Brynjolf picked up the horn and put it back again. Nothing.

“What in Oblivion, lass?” he asked, turning to her. “I’ve always understood what the glowing words meant but now I can do something when I say them. IIZ NUS!”

Nothing.

“What the fuck? FEIM!” He became a ghost again.

“Each Word must be unlocked by a dragon’s soul or another Tongue sharing their understanding of it with you,” Laina said shakily. “Three Mothers and all the gods of Left and Right.”

“There was a dragon soul in this?” he asked, examining the horn suspiciously.

“Dragons have horns, so it stands to reason.” Laina reverted to her academic tone to avoid being overwhelmed. “Or maybe the Greybeards locked the understanding of certain Words into it. Given you just became a ghost, maybe that Word we found by the waterfall is the key to passing through those gates.”

“Aye, stands to reason,” he agreed before glancing up at her. “Lass, what’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet.”

“You say you’ve always been able to read Dovahzul?” she asked in return.

“Only the Words that glow, lass.”

Laina took several deep breaths and exhaled slowly, grounding herself in her spiritual centre as Marius had taught her many years ago. “Pardon the shock. But I wasn’t expecting to have met the Dragonborn by chance after he got betrayed by his Guildmaster.”

“The Dragon-what?” Brynjolf asked blankly.

“The Dragonborn. A mortal with the soul of a dragon, who can speak and learn Shouts as they do.” Laina raked back her hair nervously. “Like Wulfharth. Or Talos.”

At the mention of the man-god who’d ravaged the Reach, and in whose name Ulfric and Sigdrifa had ravaged the Reach again, Brynjolf’s eyes widened. Then they narrowed. “I am _not_ like Talos,” he growled angrily. “I’m insulted you’d even say so, lass.”

“Not like him personality-wise!” Laina said hastily. “But power-wise. He brought down walls with his Voice and called up fog and all sorts of other things before that Breton assassin cut his throat and removed his ability to Shout. With the right Shouts, you can do that, and so much more.”

She’d better keep the whole destined-to-fight-Alduin thing from him until he could cope with having the soul of a dragon.

Brynjolf took a deep breath and breathed out slowly as she had. “I see, lass. But you’re not telling me everything. I can tell by the look in your eyes.”

She told him what the appearance of the dragons and his status meant to the fate of the world. To Brynjolf’s credit, he only paled and muttered something about a drink. That was okay by her, because she needed a few herself.

…

_“Alduin has returned and if you don’t beat him, he’ll eat the world and all within. I’d hoped to let you get used to being Dragonborn before I told you the last bit.”_

Brynjolf could hardly blame the normally unflappable Laina being perturbed because he was rather flappable himself about the whole thing. He pocketed the horn as she’d said the Greybeards would insist he come back to fetch it eventually, helped her pick up and collect the remaining loot in this place, and emerged into a drizzly afternoon typical of Hjaalmarch, no matter the season.

“How much do you reckon Jonna will sell us a keg for?” he asked her as they walked back to Morthal. “I’m not kidding when I said I want to get as royally drunk as possible.”

“I reckon fifty septims if it’s the house ale,” she answered. “You’re not the only one. I’ll race you to the bottom of the barrel.”

That’s what he liked about Laina. She wasn’t too proud to wallow in shared misery. Maybe having Sigdrifa as a mother did that to her.

“I’ll get some more spells from Falion,” she observed. “Illusion and Conjuration. I want plenty of ways to scare off a dragon and plenty of bodies between me and one.”

“If I can stay a ghost long enough to get past a dragon’s fire, I can cut the damned thing’s throat,” he promised.

“That will certainly help. Alduin’s going to be sending a lot of dragons after you because he will know you exist.” Laina’s voice was still shaky. “If you’d told me you could read the Words, I could have brought my codex with me and taught you every Word I know. It took me five years to unlock one Word.”

“You can Shout?” he asked.

“One Word. Strun. ‘Storm’.” Her voice was sombre. “The one time I used it, I caused a two-minute thunderstorm that destroyed County Bruma’s crops.”

“No wonder you keep it to yourself, lass.” He wasn’t surprised Laina could Shout. He suspected she hated the idea of not knowing things.

It wasn’t that far a walk back to Morthal, even in a bog, and the mudcrab stupid enough to attack them would provide a tasty lunch (and cure disease potions) when properly steamed in butter. Laina looked preoccupied and truth be told, Brynjolf himself was quite shaken. It wasn’t every day you discovered you had a dragon’s soul, something in common with the Thief-God Talos, and were responsible for saving the world from becoming a snack for a big black dragon that ate souls in Sovngarde.

The Moorside was empty this time of day because even in a little village like Morthal, there was always work to be done and now fewer hands to do it. Hroggar, freed from Alva’s spell, had slunk away when further investigation – and the discovery of Laelette becoming a vampire – revealed that the fire had been deliberately set. Falion could have cured Laelette, except she and Thonnir disappeared the following night, leaving their son in Lami and Jorgen’s care. Idgrod looked even more careworn now and her daughter was stepping in to sort out matters of inheritance and ownership. So much havoc wreaked by one woman.

“That was quick,” Jonna observed as she baked bread on hot stones.

“I learned a couple new spells,” Laina said ruefully. “Can we buy a keg? It’s been one of those days-“

Outside, people started screaming and there was some kind of roar.

“Fuck,” Laina cursed.

Jorgen stuck his head inside. “Get into the cellar! A dragon’s attacking!”

_Bastard could have let us get drunk first,_ Brynjolf said bitterly.

Laina drank one of her more powerful magicka potions and sheathed herself in a skin of shimmering light like a Ward, but tighter. “Bryn,” she said softly.

“Aye,” he grated. “Good thing I can turn into a ghost now.”

Outside, a bronze-scaled dragon was strafing the village with fire. “Feim,” he murmured, becoming a ghost. Handy little trick, that. He could think of all sorts of possibilities…

Laina wrenched a boulder from near the inn and threw it at the dragon’s wings. “Aim for the wings. If any of you have magic, use lightning to impede its ability to Shout. When it’s down, flank it. Dragons don’t move very fast. Brace yourself, I’m bringing a storm.”

She lifted her face to the sky, inhaled deeply and Shouted: **_“STRUN.”_**

That one Word echoed from horizon to horizon, bringing clouds that lashed the ground with rain and whipped the dragon with lightning, earning roars of fury and pain from the beast. Brynjolf could only imagine what damage it would do to a place less waterlogged than Hjaalmarch.

Jarl Idgrod and her daughter emerged from Highmoon Hall, snakes of lightning writhing from their hands as they struck the dragon in unison while Falion gestured, Conjuring a pair of Dremora Lords, and then unleashed them to flank the monster. Brynjolf closed in, cursing his muteness, and slid under the dragon’s belly as it landed.

The storm passed swiftly and the guard emerged from under porches and eaves once more, screaming more to dispel fear than to frighten the dragon, and their arrows were like the pecks of sparrows on a slaughterfish. But pinprick by pinprick, slashing and hacking and stabbing, through lightning and thrown boulders and the hoarse cries of the Dremora as they struck with Daedric blades, it fell to the side as Brynjolf rolled away with a muttered Feim to escape being crushed.

“Dovahkiin? Niid!” was the beast’s last cry of despair before a Dremora decapitated it.

By the time Brynjolf had adjusted to the rush of power and the absorption of its soul, the bones and a few scales were all that remained, bleached as if left in the sun and weather for years. A tangle of metal rested in the bottom of its ribcage and the skull glared balefully at all.

“Ah shit,” he said mournfully as pandemonium broke out. “The lass was right.”


	9. Kin in the Hills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for alcohol use and mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, torture, child abandonment, war crimes, imprisonment and religious conflict.

“By my right as Jarl, I name you Thanes of Hjaalmarch. Bear these weapons as your badge of office and I will tell my guards of your new rank so they know you’re not part of the common rabble now.”

Idgrod watched Lain Green-Fingers and Brynjolf exchange glances as a staff and dagger were placed in their hands by Aslfur. “We’re honoured,” the mage said after a moment’s silence. “But I have duties to the College and Brynjolf… well, his business is in Riften.”

“Not for a while,” Idgrod said dryly. “And where you’re going, you’ll need diplomatic immunity.”

“You really want to give a Thief diplomatic immunity, Jarl?” Brynjolf asked, his eyebrows rising.

“If you’re caught in another Hold, the immunity won’t count unless you’re a Thane there too,” Idgrod told him. “You’ve done more than I expected for Morthal and for that, I’m grateful. I expect nothing more. I know the dragons and the Eye of Magnus are more important than one minor Hold.”

“Eye of… Ah, that damned sphere,” Laina murmured.

“As you say, Laina.” Idgrod forbore from using the name the sorceress had been born with. It fit her as well as a child’s dress did a woman grown. “I know Hjaalmarch’s prestige is a thin cloak at best. But in the city of stone and the embassy of gold, it will be better than nothing.”

She leaned back in her throne, shrugging her fur mantle tighter around herself. The battle against Mirmulnir had drained inner resources already meagre from the Morvath matter. That alone would have had her give these two Thanedom. But the Dragonborn as Thane would serve as an aegis – threadbare, true, given their previous allegiances – against outside dangers.

“Cleave to each other and not even the threefold danger you face can prevail,” she said wearily. If times weren’t so dangerous, she’d hand the Triskele Throne to her daughter and join the Hags in the hills as was proper. “As I will it…”

“…So mote it be,” finished Laina, concluding the traditional end of an invocation of the gods.

Idgrod nodded tiredly. “Go and celebrate. Or leave if you want. For now, your time in Morthal is done.”

…

Laina finished packing her bags as Brynjolf moaned piteously. She’d forgotten it was practically impossible for an experienced alchemist to get drunk, unless they imbibed truly exotic liquors, because of the resistance to poisons they built up in their work. So she spent the rest of the night checking their supplies, brewing up everything but bespoke ingredients into potions, and sleeping the sleep of the mentally drained.

Brynjolf, not being so blessed (or cursed), was now suffering the Emperor of all hangovers and likely wishing for death. But he’d packed his own bags and was seated in the corner awaiting her to be ready.

“Done,” she said, swinging the pack over her right shoulder and the satchel on her right. “At least we have enough to afford a stay at the Winking Skeever.”

“Hope so.” Brynjolf stood up with a wince. “How’d you stay sober? You outdrank Benor.”

“The curse of the alchemist. You spend so much time tasting and testing potions that you eventually build up an immunity to poisons,” she admitted ruefully. “You should see what we make to get ourselves drunk. Most of the ingredients are technically a poison that weakens your resistance to other poisons.”

“You’d love Talen-Jei’s drinks at the Bee and Barb,” he observed. “That’s if he ever lets me inside for intimidating Keerava into paying her Guild fees.”

“Extortion?” she asked with a raised eyebrow as he picked up his pack.

“Insurance. We keep Maven off her back.”

Laina waved farewell to Jonna and then stepped outside. For a change, Hjaalmarch was relatively sunny, and she could see Solitude across the harbour. Gods willing, it would be a pleasant hike.

Just before the road swung towards the bridge that gave Dragon Bridge its name, there was a crossroads that had paths branching out to Morthal, Markarth and Solitude. If it hadn’t been for the spiteful buzz of its fletching, Laina would have been shot in the back by an arrow fired by a hidden archer. Instead, she dropped to the ground and the stone point shattered on the rockface behind her.

Still crouched, she activated Detect Life and saw three or four figures hidden behind a clever screen of branches and mottled hide the colour of stone. “I was a Legion battlemage,” she announced loudly as Brynjolf burst into a string of incredibly profane curses that took the names of the Three Mothers in vain. “Try that stunt again and I’ll bring lightning from the sky to fry you behind that pretty little blind of yours.”

An oath in the lilt of the Reach drifted from above, earning another profane response from Brynjolf in the same language that described the archer’s ancestry and sexual preferences in a manner that precluded human or merish involvement of any sort. Laina took notes because that was a good one.

“Go and piss off then,” retorted one of the folk behind the blind, a woman. “If we see ye in the Reach, we’ll make mincemeat of ye.”

Laina snorted. “My granma taught me the ways of the Hags. I’ll send her your eyeballs because she’s partial to that treat.”

“My granma is Bothela mac Grainne of Stone Streets and my da was Gillam of the Gates, lads,” Brynjolf informed them through gritted teeth. “I’ll sneak through your camp and steal the briar of your Matriarch’s boyfriend so fast he’ll be dead before he hits the ground if you try.”

A laugh was their response. “That’s actually a good one,” the woman said. “Mind if I borrow it?”

She popped up her head, revealing a young face crowned with a long crest of brown hair and the intricate tattoos of a noblewoman. “Sorry, it wasn’t anything personal. We tend to take pot shots at anything that looks like a mercenary coming our way because the lowlanders like to send them after the clansfolk. Kaie mac Fereda. I’m guessing by the age and hair you’d be Argis and Muiri’s cousin Bryn, right?”

“Aye. Brynjolf to the lowlanders. It settles them down long enough for me to pick their damned pockets.” He grinned at Kaie. “Would you like a hidden route into the Palace of the Kings? I know three that lead to Ulfric’s own bedchamber.”

“And why is he alive?” Kaie asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Cutting throats is Dark Brotherhood business and sadly, their current Speaker’s an old schoolfriend of the Stormsword’s,” Brynjolf said with a sigh.

“Mac Fereda,” Laina said. “That’s Lost Valley, right?”

“It is,” Kaie confirmed.

“Laina mac Catriona. Green-Fingers to the Cyrods and the lowlanders,” the mage responded, choosing not to acknowledge the mention of her mother.

“Laina? Cousin Laina the mage who studies dragon stuff?” Kaie asked, her voice going squeaky.

“Yeah.” Catriona had mentioned her to the clan?

“Get your arses up here. Food’s shite at the Four Shields and expensive _and_ shite at the Winking Skeever.”

Laina shrugged and obeyed. It was tacky for clansfolk to kill each other outside of a formal challenge or execution, so they should be safe enough. Given their next destination was Markarth, it couldn’t hurt to learn the lay of the land among the hill-clans.

…

“Don’t bother getting into a drinking contest with her,” Bryn advised, jerking his thumb at Laina. “She’s an alchemist.”

Kaie chuckled as she poured shots of jin into little stoneware cups. Bryn wore his Reacher blood on his face, rosy-fair and auburn-haired, whereas Laina took after the Kreathling blood from Catriona’s ill-fated marriage. But she’d pulled back her sleeve to reveal clan-tattoos, a hawk’s feather motif that concealed the ogham used in charms of… not invisibility, per se, but _blending in_ and _overlook this woman’s blood._ It was intricate work, some of the Glenmoril Matriarch’s best.

“Granma said as much. Found her grubbing for weeds in a Bruma alleyway to make a potion that’d sell for a few septims.” Kaie handed the shots to each of them. “Slainte!” she said as she lifted her own and drank.

Both of them echoed her and neither coughed on the juniper liquor. Outside, Kaie’s three scouts were cooking goat and greens for dinner. All three came from Lost Valley and Holy Mountain, clans that still stood loyal to the Ard Ri Madanach, so she could trust in their discretion.

“We live in times of great change,” Kaie said after the traditional toast. “Dragons soar the sky and the Hags are muttering over their fires. Something’s in the wind.”

Laina glanced over her shoulder to see if any scouts were in earshot. “We can give you some answers about that. Once our business in Haafingar’s concluded, we have extensive business in Markarth.”

“Aye?” Kaie poured herself another shot but when she offered the bottle to the other two, they both shook their head.

“Laina tells me that Alduin World-Eater has returned,” Bryn said sombrely. “If he isn’t beaten, it’ll be Deireadh an Domhain.”

Kaie nearly dropped her cup. “You’re joking.”

“No, lass. I wish I was.”

The grim expression on the mage’s face confirmed it. Well, Catriona said Laina came from Akaviri dragon-slayer stock, so she’d likely know it for truth.

“The gods can’t be done with us yet,” Kaie said mournfully.

Bryn closed his eyes. “No, lass. Turns out my ability to read the glowing words on those dragon walls makes me a Dragonborn. Like Talos in power… but not like him as a person. Laina herself can Shout. She called that nasty storm yesterday to throw lightning at a dragon to stop him from Shouting.”

“I know you’re the Stormsword’s get, woman, but you took it a little too literally,” Kaie observed to her cousin.

“I revere Kynareth in Her aspect as the Storm-Goddess of the Nords,” Laina answered simply. “It was She who gave humanity the Thu’um for all Akatosh decides who has a dragon’s soul. The association of Talos with the Voice is actually blasphemy if you follow the old faith. Shor is the Fox, the god of mortality that brings growth and the Lord of the Dead. Talos isn’t even the ultimate Ysmir, the Dragon of the North. That’s Brynjolf.”

“Three Mothers!” Kaie exclaimed. “Does Ulfric know that?”

“As an apprentice Greybeard, he damn well should,” Laina said flatly. “But I suspect the Thalmor torturing him and the Stormsword shoring up any faltering resolve by pointing out that Talos _is_ an incarnation of Shor in His aspect as Elf-Enemy, rightly or wrongly, has him ignoring it.”

Kaie had that second drink. She needed it.

“This is above my authority or even your granma’s,” she said after clearing her throat. “The end of days… We need Madanach freed from Cidhna Mine.”

“We’ve got a bit of a problem,” Brynjolf said grimly. “My Guildmaster, Mercer Frey, has betrayed me and the others. Our luck’s gone to piss. And he’s probably painted me a traitor.”

“Where the fuck are the Nightingales?” Kaie demanded. “It’s their bloody job to keep the Guild on the straight and narrow.”

Bryn’s eyes widened. “I thought they were a myth to keep footpads in line!”

“I don’t know what a Nightingale is, but I suspect their lack of interference has something to do with Mercer,” Laina said grimly. “We seek answers in Markarth. I promised Brynjolf I’d lend a hand because I’m known as a serious scholar of ancient Nord lore and for a while, the Atmorani were contemporary with the Dwemer and the Falmer.”

Kaie leaned forward. “Cousin, it’s on me we can help each other. Your tattoos hide you from those who recognise you, but the Silver-Bloods will not like a mage who won’t answer to them. They’ll like a Reacher Nord who’s not one of their lapdogs even less. Argis has to dodge murderers every few months and he’s just a senior guardsman.”

“Pity I can’t get word back to Maven,” Bryn mused. “She’d love the chance to dismantle the Silver-Bloods.”

“From what I’ve heard of the Black-Briar woman, we’d be better off courting Harkon the Cruel as an ally, because she’s a treacherous and greedy one,” Kaie disagreed.

“We’re Thanes of Hjaalmarch,” Laina said softly. “Would the Silver-Bloods cause trouble?”

“Cousin, they’ll frame you and throw into Cidhna Mine,” Kaie told her frankly.

“Only the once,” Laina observed, her blue-green eyes chips of ice.

“As pleasurable as it would be to see you stick a lightning bolt down their throats, I have another idea,” she said wryly. “There’s a dragon or two bothering the Matriarchs up north and…”

The gods had given them a Dragonborn. Kaie would make use of it.


	10. Visit to the Blue Palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Some Solitude missions will be altered slightly due to them not things our protagonists would pursue if they followed canon.

Brynjolf normally didn’t approve of public executions but for the lad who allowed Ulfric to escape after murdering Torygg, he’d make an exception. Laina’s expression was pale and sickened though, so he made the suggestion they ought to book a room at the Winking Skeever instead of watching the show. She nodded gratefully and so they went to the gate-side inn.

Corpulus Vinius was only too happy to rent them a room, though the price made Laina wince and even Brynjolf agreed that fifty septims was a bit rich, but it included meals and house wine, ale or mead. Once their business in Haafingar was done, they could head to the Reach and finally get around to the business of getting that translation for Gallus’ journal and dealing with the Silver-Bloods. Brynjolf had a feeling that he’d need the resources of the Guild to handle the dragons.

They left the inn a couple hours later, the crowd now dispersed and a guard scrubbing down the block where Roggvir had been executed, and Laina tossed a coin to the beggar loitering near a shop and asking him where the Blue Palace was. She could have saved herself a septim and asked Brynjolf, but the beggar was sober enough to give her accurate directions.

“What’s at the Blue Palace, lass?” he murmured as the beggar thanked her.

“Sybille Stentor, the court wizard,” Laina answered. “I have a delivery for her from Phinis Gestor and some specialised potions she ordered from me.”

“If you’re going to the Blue Palace, you might want to rethink your outfits,” noted a well-dressed Altmer nearby.

Laina’s mouth tightened. “And what would you suggest? I was planning on getting my robes laundered and going tomorrow morning.”

“You're really going to the Blue Palace? That presents an opportunity,” she answered. “If you were willing to wear one of Radiant Raiment's outfits and speak to the Jarl I would not only pay you but let you keep the outfit.”

Brynjolf rubbed his chin. “Does that apply to both of us, lass?”

The womer nodded. “It does.”

Taarie and her sister Endarie didn’t just provide new garb, they threw in a bath and haircut as well. Laina talked shop with the duo, mentioning she made cosmetics but since most Nords couldn’t afford much better than a little lip paste and kohl made from soot, she generally stuck to potions. From their expressions, she found new customers that day. Given magery was an expensive trade, Brynjolf supposed every bit of coin was welcome.

Primped and pampered, it was afternoon by the time they reached the Blue Palace, and Brynjolf felt rather jaunty in his well-cut green jacket, white shirt and brown breeks tucked into soft fur-lined boots. Laina was clad in sapphire-blue, silver-grey and night-black robes to match the silver-and-sapphire circlet she’d donned and the ash staff she’d found in Saarthal. There had been a beautiful set of aqua, turquoise and saffron robes she’d have looked _stunning_ in, but Endarie thought they were a bit too fine to give away.

“Elisif has Reacher blood herself,” he explained as they walked along the long street that led to the Blue Palace. “So I’ll introduce myself as Bryn mac Gillam instead of Brynjolf.”

“I’ll stick to Green-Fingers. Granma’s fairly well known in some circles and I need to assume that someone in Elisif’s court will know who her daughter was,” Laina answered with a nod.

“Aye, lass. Good idea.” Even though he knew of her ancestry and could see the physical resemblance between the Stormsword and Laina on a superficial level, the fact they had nothing in common beyond blood made it hard for Brynjolf to see her mother in her.

Elisif was still holding audiences, the mayor of Dragon Bridge telling her of strange lights and noises coming from Wolfskull Cave. Sybille Stentor, a Breton lass whose eyes gleamed like Alva’s, said her scrying had found nothing but Laina’s expression indicated otherwise. “Jarl Elisif, if you’ll pardon the interruption, may I question Junius?” she asked respectfully. “I have some experience in exorcism.”

The pretty, rose-cheeked Elisif smiled gratefully. “Of course, Mistress…?”

“Master Laina Green-Fingers of the College of Winterhold,” Laina answered with a slight bow. “My colleague here is Bryn mac Gillam, technically an apprentice at the College but we tend to use him more as a troubleshooter for problems magic can’t solve.”

“Beannachtaí,” Brynjolf said, bowing himself. “I’m honoured to meet the rightful Ard-Ban-Ri of Skyrim.”

Elisif dimpled at him. “It’s good to meet a countryman! You and Laina must stay for dinner after this audience, as I can see you are people of substance.”

“We’d be honoured,” he said, smiling.

“What colour were the lights?” Laina asked Junius, who was dry-washing his hands nervously.

“Purplish,” was the immediate answer. “And there was creaking, moaning and what sounded like souls in damnation.”

“Wolfskull Cave… That was where Potema Septim did some of her more _questionable_ magics,” Laina observed with a sigh. Brynjolf knew that sigh and what followed next. “You should send some of the Bruma Fourth’s battlemages and a crack squad of Legionaries to investigate.”

Elisif sighed herself. “General Tullius won’t spare them. You mentioned you had some experience in exorcism…?”

“It’ll be cheaper to send the Legionaries,” Laina said wryly. “I have deliveries to make and business in Markarth to attend to. I’m already running late thanks to events in the Pale and Hjaalmarch. If we must attend to this…”

“You sound awfully certain of yourself,” drawled Erikur Many-Ships. “But are you really worth whatever inflated fees you’d charge to investigate something that may only be bandits?”

“Laina Green-Fingers is a Master in good standing with the College of Winterhold, Tamriel’s foremost expert in pre-Talosite Nord ruins and a former battlemage of the Anvil Third,” Sybille Stentor said with icy precision. “She is my superior in Alteration and alchemy, my equal in enchanting, and like any other Synodic alumnus is incredibly well-trained in the arcane arts.”

“’A knife thrust in the right place is worth more than a sword-swing in the wrong place’,” Elisif observed, quoting an old Reach proverb. “Name your price, Laina Green-Fingers, and I’ll see it paid – even if I need to pawn my dower jewellery to do so.”

Brynjolf groaned internally. First draugr, then vampires, then necromancers hiding in a cave where the Wolf Queen did all sorts of evil things. All he needed was some dragon to stop by and say hello. The way things were going, the dragon would be a necromancer who could soul trap some poor bastard with a single Shout. And everything would be on fire. Purple fire.

Laina did, however, demand a respectable price including filled grand soul gems to enchant her new robes and other things. She was one of those rare beasties who could put two enchantments into one object at a time.

Dinner was decent, though Elisif apologised for the sparseness of the menu, and they were able to name-drop Radiant Raiment and earn their new clothing during the conversation. Brynjolf could see that the Jarl was starved for support and friendship… It was a good thing he wasn’t looking to con her, because she’d be vulnerable to a romantic scam – not that he used such tactics. It seemed dishonourable and an insult to Mara.

They declined a room for the night as they’d already paid for one at the Winking Skeever and as a full Masser and crescent Secunda hung over Solitude, they walked back to the pub. Tomorrow was going to be a long and unpleasant day.


	11. Two Daedric Princes and a Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abandonment, torture, imprisonment, adultery, war crimes and religious conflict. So many quests, so many Daedric Princes, so little time in Haafingar… I’m also ignoring the in-game restriction of only one ring, amulet, etc because I don’t think it’s realistic.

Wolfskull Cave was unpleasant but the coven of necromancers trying to resurrect Potema Septima, aside from the ritual leader, weren’t even up to the standards of a College of Whispers Journeymage. Calm, Rage, Sun’s Fire and a few Lightning Bolts sorted them out and returned Potema to the aether, though she vowed that it wasn’t over. So far as Laina was concerned, it was.

The fun began when she was going through their goods with Brynjolf and her hand closed around a faceted orb of milky agate, causing a voice to declare, **_“A new hand touches the beacon.”_** Receiving instructions, delivered in an arrogant otherworldly tone that reminded Laina uncomfortably of her mother, to travel to Mount Kilkreath and return the beacon was bad enough. Being unable to throw the damned beacon into the pits of Wolfskull Cave made it infinitely worse. So off to Mount Kilkreath (and a hitherto-unknown Word Wall) they went, Brynjolf rolling his eyes all the way.

Meridia. Of _course_ it would be Meridia. Arrogant, demanding and her only saving grace being her absolute hatred of undead in any way, shape or form. Laina had to give props to the necromancer ballsy enough to desecrate the Daedric Prince’s own shrine, even if the task of removing him fell to her and Brynjolf. Hovering above the shrine, staring into a sphere of radiant light that didn’t blind her, was a new experience.

Malkoran preferred shades and wraiths over corporeal undead but the ectoplasmic creations were solid enough to harm and be harmed. Poor bastards came from both sides of the war as the necromancer harnessed the perverted energies of the shrine to raise them. Generations of worshippers, petitioners and other sorts had left a considerable amount of offerings that Laina and Brynjolf shamelessly looted. Meridia didn’t need it and she was dragging Laina chamber by chamber to restore light to the temple.

The necromancer’s mortal shell died easily enough but his shade – and the lesser ones he raised – proved to be more difficult. But the simple gold ring she’d kept from Elisif’s jewels had been newly enchanted with a grand soul gem to boost her Restoration and Destruction spells and her magicka regeneration, so she was able to cast more effective spells even faster. Brynjolf had recharged his enchanted daggers and in a pinch, the staff she’d taken from Saarthal drained the power of the shades by flinging lightning at them. Once they were all dead, Laina walked over to where the legendary Dawnbreaker was sheathed into a stone slot while Brynjolf looted the shades. They’d picked up a respectable amount of septims from the dead Malkoran hadn’t bothered to acquire.

More hovering and the admonishment to use Dawnbreaker to cleanse the undead from Skyrim (and incidentally spread Meridia’s influence) followed before Laina was returned to the foot of the massive white statue that overlooked Haafingar. Brynjolf found himself outside too, the doors firmly locked behind them.

“I suppose it’s something,” he observed when she told him what Meridia said. “I don’t think a glowing sword would be appropriate for my career, lass.”

They returned to Solitude wearily, telling Falk Firebeard what was going on at Wolfskull Cave, and received a generous amount of coin on top of what Elisif had paid them. This time they accepted the Jarl’s offer of hospitality and found themselves ensconced in a very comfortable guest room, finer than anything they’d seen in a while. Brynjolf fell asleep almost immediately but Laina lingered over a spell tome she’d found in Wolfskull Cave, slowly leafing through it.

**_“Laina.”_** The contralto was hoarse. **_“We need to talk.”_**

 _Fuck off, Meridia,_ she thought as she studied the book. _I need to sleep._

_**“I’m not Meridia and you won’t be able to ignore me. Come to the Pelagius Wing. Or in your dreams. It works for me either way.”**_

**** _Oh, come on…_

_**“LAINA!”**_

Reluctant and irritated, Laina threw on a robe and left the guest room, going downstairs and unlocking the door to the eastern wing. She’d barely gone three steps before the Blue Palace faded and she found herself in a replica of the Imperial throne with a stern blue-eyed Colovian in traditional Akaviri armour seated on the Ruby Throne.

“Oh, fuck off!” she swore as she realised this was the younger version of Arius Aurelius. “You’re not funny, Madgoddess!”

“I’m not trying to be.” A bulky, lantern-jawed woman with the underbite of the century, febrile pale green eyes and the white armour of an Arena Champion strolled in from one of the side doors. “This is the only gift I can give Arius. He lost so much in his life.”

“As I said, ‘fuck off’,” Laina repeated. “The old bastard caused a lot of misery and him being Emperor would have been a bad idea.”

“So your trauma is valid but his isn’t?” the Madgoddess demanded. “I won’t deny he wasn’t perfect-“

“Trauma is no excuse to be an evil son of a bitch,” Laina interrupted flatly. “Why am I here? I had to kill several necromancers today and Meridia’s just given me Dawnbreaker. I’m tired. I want to sleep while dragons aren’t burning everything to the ground.”

“You’re the Dragonborn?” Aurelia Northstar blurted.

Laina laughed. “Not in this lifetime. He’s a Reacher Nord who hates Talos… with some justification, in fact.”

“Talos must love that,” Aurelia observed. “He’s honestly a dickhead.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.” Laina folded her arms. “Why am I here?”

“You’re here because issues between the Aurelii and the Empire need to be resolved if either’s going to survive the coming storms,” Aurelia said softly. “You can start by laying your grandfather and Pelagius to rest. They’re drinking buddies in the Shivering Isles.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Laina cursed as the landscape changed. “This is not my problem-“

…

“That’s an interesting staff,” Brynjolf observed as he watched Laina stumble into the guest room, her hair and robe dishevelled, a staff topped by a screaming face in her hand.

“It belonged to a relative,” she said tersely. “I guess two exorcisms weren’t enough today, because I just completed a third. On the upside, Elisif has half her palace back again.”

“I’m sure she’ll be grateful,” Brynjolf assured her. “It’s a few hours until dawn, lass. Do you want to sleep?”

“Please. I just had to go through the minds of my grandfather and Pelagius the Mad and resolve the issues that made them utterly bonkers,” she said bitterly. “Whoever said being descended from the Septims was a fantastic thing obviously never knew them.”

“You’re descended from _who_?” Brynjolf asked in shock.

“Martin Septim was a co-dependent mess with Aurelia Northstar, the Hero of Kvatch,” she said softly and tiredly. “They had a son, that son had a son, that son had two sons, and the eldest got married to the Stormsword and had me. It sucks, they suck, and the Madgoddess and Akatosh and Talos can honestly get fucked for all the crap that’s befallen me thanks to them being pricks.”

She climbed into bed, rolled over and promptly fell asleep, leaving Brynjolf to ponder this latest revelation. Somehow, given the shenanigans that accompanied Laina, he was unsurprised. Honestly, him having the soul of a dragon was the least weird thing about this whole mess.

He got up, pulled on a shirt, breeks and boots and padded into the corridors as the noise below indicated the servants were already hard at work. The last time he’d been here, he’d stolen a crate of very expensive wine… and then Gulum-Ei still tried to screw him over. Damned lizard.

Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any more obstacles to them leaving Haafingar. It would take about three or four days to get to Markarth since Laina wanted to stop off at a Nordic ruin on the way through because there might be a set of Shalidor’s writings, then there was that dragon in the Reach’s northeast Kaie told them about and…

The doors to the Blue Palace slammed open and a guard in Haafingar’s red ran into the audience chamber. “Dragon! Dragon attacking the gates! Oh, Kynareth save us...”

Brynjolf groaned, turned around and headed back to his bedroom. Laina wasn’t going to be happy to be awoken and have to fight a dragon on top of everything else.

Half an hour later, armed and armoured, they headed for the gates. Much to Brynjolf’s bemusement, Laina brought that odd staff with her. “Stay back,” she ordered the guards tersely, pointing the damned thing at the dragon as it crouched on the gates. “This might be messy.”

An exploding dragon that left its guts over half of Solitude, the guards only protected by Laina raising a Ward that deflected chunks of flesh and bone, certainly qualified as messy. Brynjolf closed his eyes as the meat melted into power that he sucked up like a sponge, granting him the understanding of the Word ‘SA’ from Mount Kilkreath.

“By the Eight!” one of the guards blurted. “He’s Dragonborn!”

“Unless you feel like being pressganged into the Legion, we better head back to the Blue Palace, grab our gear and get the hell out of here now,” Laina said softly. “Tullius won’t pass up the chance to enlist the Dragonborn and an experienced battlemage.”

“Aye, lass,” Brynjolf agreed as he began to back away. “I hope you have an idea-“

She Conjured a rabbit that ran in the general direction of the Blue Palace and before Brynjolf knew it, they were standing outside the structure.

“Wabbajack responds to _need_ but the effect is random,” Laina explained quickly as they hurried inside. “That dragon could have become a sweet roll and we might have transformed into butterflies to escape.”

They grabbed their packs, downed a couple Invisibility potions Laina kept for situations like this, and went for the secret exit that existed under the windmill. The Legion was already demanding to know where the Dragonborn and the battlemage were and they had a glint in their eyes that meant they weren’t going to take no for an answer.

Emerging from under Solitude’s foundations and overlooking the harbour, Laina allowed herself a pungent curse that blasphemed several gods – a feeling Brynjolf shared – and then turned for the coast. The Reach was a good half-day’s walk away and the sooner they were across the border, the sooner things could die down here. Wherever they went, trouble followed, and Brynjolf was getting heartily sick of it because he wasn’t suited to the spotlight.

_Damn Mercer,_ he thought bitterly, _if you hadn’t betrayed me, I wouldn’t be the Dragonborn and running around escaping dragons, Stormcloaks and Legionaries. Thanks a lot, you bastard._


	12. Your Mother's Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, implied torture, imprisonment, war crimes, criminal acts and implied sexual activity. The fun never ends when I’m writing these two. My test for COVID was also negative, so I can go for a good walk, lol.

“The civil war must be going worse than I thought if bandits are openly occupying forts in Haafingar,” Laina said to Brynjolf as they crouched behind a boulder and examined Fort Hraggstad from afar. “The breakdown of law and order in the Old Holds, I can understand. But this…”

He grimaced. “I know you’re ex-Legion, lass, but from the bottom one boot looks much the same as the other.”

“I’m not loyal to the Empire so much as I’m _resigned_ to it,” she answered with a sigh. “The alternative is much worse.”

She sneaked another look around the boulder. “Try to get around these jokers?”

Brynjolf sighed. “The ground’s too exposed, lass. Even I need a shadow to hide in and I know we used your only Invisibility potions back in Solitude.”

Laina cupped her hand, bringing forth a blood-red glow. “Illusion it is. I’ll use Frenzy on the big one in armour. He looks like he’ll kill a few sentries before the spell wears off.”

A true Nord like the ones the Stormcloaks revered would be appalled by the use of Illusion to deceive an enemy and stealth to avoid confronting them directly, but Laina’s fucks had flown south for the winter. It was her and Brynjolf versus foes of several orders of magnitude greater than them and from her days in the Legion, it was results that mattered more than honour in the greater scheme of things. Her spell struck true and frothing at the mouth, the Nord attacked his compatriots, cutting them down like wheat in a field.

“Might as well clear out the damned fort,” Brynjolf mused. “It’s getting dark and I’d rather not camp out here when there’s some nice warm beds in there.”

Laina smiled wryly. “If that fellow in the plate’s the best they’ve got, you could cut their throats with a hangnail.”

The Nord she’d sent berserk _was_ the best the bandits had and an Icy Spear took care of him. As sunset turned the sky red-gold, they stripped the corpses of their armour and piled them into a rough pyre, Laina overcharging her Flames spell to turn them into ash. There were enough supplies left by the Legion to make a decent meal of smoked meat, cheese and grilled leeks while Laina took every herb and potion she could find.

Brynjolf sighed as she cast the detritus of their meal into the fire to be burned away.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“This is the furthest and longest I’ve been away from the Guild since I joined, fresh out of Honorhall Orphanage,” he confessed. “I miss them, lass.”

“Neela-Tai always told me the best Guild branches were like families,” Laina noted. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long to head for Markarth, Brynjolf. I didn’t expect half of what happened.”

“None of us did, lass. I’m not blaming you.” He raked back his greasy red hair. Both of them needed a wash. Tomorrow, before they left. “Mercer’s pissed on everything Gallus built and I can’t even begin to mend it because there’s a world-eating dragon on my arse!”

“Once we have the translation, we can send it to Karliah,” Laina told him. “She could have come with us to lend a hand and she didn’t.”

“The Guild… well, I’ve been rebuilding its influence across Skyrim,” he said with a sigh. “Once Karliah was recognised – there’s only so many purple-eyed Dunmer – word would have gotten back to Mercer. One of the reasons I wanted to hightail it to Markarth was because we’ve got a big job due there and Sapphire, one of the up-and-comers, was going to handle it. She’s shrewd enough to be wary of Mercer and clever enough to do her own investigations.”

“I wish you’d told me that before we made our travel plans,” Laina said ruefully. “I’d have gone through Eastmarch and the Rift and come up through Falkreath.”

“Neither of us expected Dawnstar, Morthal or Solitude,” he said with equal rue. “How many Daedric Princes have we annoyed so far?”

“Vaermina, mostly. The Madgoddess aspect of Sheogorath and Meridia seem fairly happy with me, even if I did chew out Great-Great-Granma for being a fucking pain in the arse.” Laina glanced at Wabbajack and Dawnbreaker, leaning against the bed she’d chosen for her own. “There’s a handcart outside and I know there’s an Orcish stronghold on the Haafingar-Reach border. Since they mostly produce orichalcum, we might as take that steel plate and the better weapons to them.”

“You’re Blood-Kin, then?” Brynjolf asked.

Laina nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got Orcish cousins in Orsinium and I met one in Bruma. There was a job he needed a hand with and I had the time to do it.”

“Aye. No use letting good arms and armour go to waste.” He scratched at his bearded jaw. “I’m filthy, lass, and you’re not much better. I think I saw a wooden tub in the corner and I know you can heat water…”

They wound up having that bath sooner than she thought and when he asked her to scrub his back, the attraction they shared sparked into open ardour, and washing turned to lovemaking. Curled together in the commander’s double bed, Laina felt him warm against her back, breathing evenly in the peace of slumber, and slipped into sleep herself with a feeling of content. Something fundamental had shifted in their relationship yet she couldn’t quite pinpoint it. Give her a few days and…

…

“Thalmor,” Laina hissed. “Fuck!”

The black-armoured guards, gold-skinned and haughty, were force-marching a group of prisoners towards a keep not unlike the one they’d cleared of bandits yesterday. Most of those in rags looked Old Holder with the beards and long hair, some of those rags the blue wraps of a Stormcloak, and Brynjolf couldn’t help but feel a hint of pity even for them when he saw the bruises and cuts. Laina had shared some terse stories about what the Thalmor did to their enemies and while Brynjolf could be philosophical if it happened to Ulfric and Sigdrifa, for anyone else…

“Another shipment?” asked one of the guards at the gate, a lad in the robes of a Justicar.

“Yes,” reported the prisoner guard with a smirk. “Ambassador Elenwen is certain that there’s Blades active in Skyrim. This lot come from the Rift and a little pre-softening confirmed there’s a crazy old man who speaks about dragons in the Ratway. We’ve even got a maternal cousin of Ulfric’s among them, so your orders are to focus on the Thief and the Grey-Mane.”

Brynjolf’s eyes widened as he realised the smallest and slightest lad among the prisoners was Etienne Rarnis, a Guildsman who’d disappeared on a job a couple months ago. Mercer had forbidden any attempt at investigation, citing too much cost and effort for someone who’d been a mediocre Thief. Now, with the hindsight of knowing Frey’s betrayal, Brynjolf had to wonder if he’d sold out or sacrificed Etienne for his own purposes. Rarnis had always claimed Mercer was more bent than a Bravil septim.

“There’s three Nords, one of whom looks a lot like the Grey-Mane, hiding on the other side of the fort,” Laina murmured into his ear. “They’re going to do something stupid.”

“If we stick to the treeline, lass, we can stop them,” he whispered in reply. “They’ve got one of the Guild in there. I need to get him out.”

Laina nodded tightly. “Then let’s make a temporary alliance with the Stormcloaks. I’d like a few warm bodies between me and your average Justicar.”

There was no questioning of his sanity or the necessity of their course. Laina simply agreed and began to turn that keen mind of hers to achieving the goal. Brynjolf was rather relieved she didn’t put up a fight; he could have understood her desire to not get involved, even if she’d dragged him through several ruins they could have avoided. Both of them were a team on a job and so it behoved them to work as one, without rancour or regret.

The trio of Stormcloaks lurked just behind a cluster of snowberry bushes, so intent on the fort that they missed Brynjolf and Laina’s approach until she cast Calm and Muffle on them. “Hold it right there, lads,” he said with a forced smile. He might vaguely pity Stormcloaks about to be tortured by the Thalmor but it didn’t mean he liked them as a whole. In a perfect world, these three would die in the course of a prison break. “We have a mutual enemy in the fort just over there.”

The grey-haired man, younger than his hair suggested, simply raised his eyebrows. “We heard they had a Thief among the prisoners,” he rumbled in a Whiterun accent. “I suppose we do have a mutual enemy.”

“From what I could pick up with Detect Life, there’s five on the perimeter, two in the courtyard, and one in the gate,” Laina said crisply, going into Legion-veteran mode. “I can hit two with Frenzy – the Justicar and the nearest one in armour. That will buy time for your archers, if they’re competent, to take out at least two more on the wall. If we’re fortunate, the bespelled duo will wreak enough havoc to weaken the rest.”

“If we wait until after dark, I can snipe the archers at the back and sides,” offered the female, who carried an ornate silver-grey bow of strange design not unlike the Stormsword’s iconic armour.

“Even better,” Laina agreed.

“Legion?” asked the grey-haired Nord.

“Ex. I’m not overly fond of the Stormcloaks but I’m from Bruma and my friend’s from the Guild. Enemy of my enemy and all of that.”

“Seems I’ve heard of a pair like you,” noted the grey-haired man. “Gave Cousin Egil a hand in exorcising Dawnstar.”

“As she said, lad, enemy of my enemy,” Brynjolf told him. “I lost kin to your Ulfric and Sigdrifa, so I’m no friend of yours… but there’s a lad from my Guild in there.”

“Reacher, redhead, enough rank in the Guild to pull a rescue operation. You’d be Brynjolf then.” The Grey-Mane offered his hand. “Avulstein Grey-Mane.”

Brynjolf wasn’t pleased the Stormcloaks knew so much about him but he said nothing, simply shaking Avulstein’s hand.

“Helga Hard-Heart and Torjon,” Avulstein said, gesturing to the other two. “More wanted to come but mounting a major raid this deep into Imperial territory wasn’t a great idea, even for my brother.”

“Laina,” was Laina’s terse response. “You should eat and nap now. Tonight’s going to be rather busy.”

The infiltration of the front part of the keep worked like a dream – Helga’s bow had a Muffle enchantment on it and so her arrows were silent while Laina’s quiet casting enabled her to wreak havoc on the Justicar and the strongest of the courtyard guards with Frenzy. Brynjolf, Torjon and Avulstein made sure of the prone enemies.

“Less guards at the back,” Laina murmured after casting Detect Life through the wooden door. “We can sneak the prisoners out. Thalmor prisons always keep the dungeons close to a secret or rear entrance. Less guards because they expect frontal assaults.”

“You’ve been a guest of them before?” Torjon asked softly.

“I was Anvil Third – the scum Legion. We’re used for all those disgusting little jobs the other Legionaries think they’re too good for, but the Bruma Fourth would have taken me as a frontline battlemage instead of a medicus, so I joined the one that let me play to my strengths.” Laina grimaced as she placed her hand on the lock. “That sometimes meant prisoner escort.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Torjon said flatly.

“And you need to get the fuck off your high horse and understand that Bruma brought your precious Stormcloaks time to prepare because the Thalmor were intent on crushing the spirit out of us,” was the mage’s grim reply. “Ulfric’s rebellion is built on the blood of the martyrs of Cloud Ruler Temple and Bruma. If you should win this war, acknowledge that, Stormcloak.”

The door unlocked and they snuck inside. Torjon looked ashamed and Avulstein thoughtful.

As Laina predicted, there were only two guards in the back, and a quick slash across the throat took care of them both. “Interrogators in the room ahead,” Laina murmured. “But flip those levers and let the other prisoners go.”

Etienne and the younger Grey-Mane were in the torture room, where a Justicar in his fancy gold-and-black robes was detailing the pain they’d endure if they didn’t talk. Laina, her lips peeling back in a snarl, unslung Wabbajack and pointed it at the Justicar to transform him into a shower of septims. Avulstein hurried to his brother while Brynjolf released Etienne.

“Bryn!” Etienne said hoarsely. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you, lad.” Brynjolf caught the potion Laina threw him and handed it to Etienne. “Drink up. Guard weapons are outside. We’re staging a jailbreak.”

Laina’s eyes were distant as she used Detect Life. “Everyone else is asleep.”

Avulstein smiled grimly. “Good. We can kill them the easier.”

“And if you use an axe, you’ll wake at least a few up,” Laina told him, rummaging in her pack. “I’ve got a few nasty surprises I’m going to season their breakfast porridge with. If it doesn’t kill them, they’ll be too weak to resist. I recognise a couple of them from Blue Carp Prison in Cyrodiil.”

“Murder’s the Brotherhood’s province, lass,” Brynjolf reminded her.

“I’m sure they’ll look the other way on a few poisoned Thalmor.”

What followed was the coldest form of murder but judging by the grim expressions of the Stormcloaks, Brynjolf supposed they quietly approved. Laina was as adept with poisons as she was with cures and the Thalmor either died or staggered away, only to be met with Thorald and Avulstein’s vengeful weapons. Etienne outright laughed when the commander was cut into pieces.

After looting every scrap of value from the fort, Brynjolf watched Laina lay magical traps that – with a few gestures – brought the wretched place tumbling to the ground in smoking ruins. Upon her face was an expression of satisfaction that was painfully familiar from his childhood.

“Sometimes, lass, I think you’re your mother’s daughter,” he observed.

It relieved him when she ran for the bushes and vomited. It reminded him that for all her pragmatism, she still had a heart. In that, she wasn’t her mother’s daughter.


	13. Borgahk the Steel Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. But wait, there’s more!

“Looks like it’s cloudy with a chance of raining dragon bits,” Brynjolf observed dryly as Wabbajack blew off a wing and part of the belly of the dragon attacking the Orcish stronghold. Laina smoothly switched to the Saarthal staff, lightning shooting to strike the dragon in its wound as the beast slammed into the side of the mountain, and the Orcs themselves swarmed out of their walls to join Brynjolf and Etienne in stabbing it to death. Whatever this dragon’s name was, he was probably regretting all his life choices from the egg to his inevitable demise right about now.

When it was bleached bones and the soul woven into the first Word of an ice-related Shout, the Orcish chief removed his helmet and wiped sweaty locks from his brow. “That’s something you don’t see every day,” he remarked good-humouredly. “You’ve saved my stronghold. Consider yourself Blood-Kin.”

Laina turned her left wrist up to show the brand on it. “I already am. My cousin’s Tarlak gro-Mashog of Orsinium. The redhead’s my man Bryn mac Gillam and the Breton’s his aide Etienne.”

“Reacher, eh? Well, we’ve always had good relations with the hill-clans and while I don’t hold with Orsinium, I won’t pick a fight with Blood-Kin from there.” The chief offered his hand. “Larak. The wisewoman’s my Hunts-Wife’s mother Sharamph.”

“As the lass said, I’m Bryn mac Gillam,” Brynjolf replied, shaking hands firmly. “Granma’s Bothela in Markarth.”

“A fine Hag,” Sharamph, a handsome older Orc womer, said approvingly. “So, can the magic to make a dragon bones be taught? The wisewomen and the Hagravens often share lore.”

“Sadly, lass, you need a dragon’s soul.” Brynjolf smiled wryly. “I guess Akatosh took a look at the last lowlander to be Dragonborn, realised He got Talos, and decided to give the job to a Reacher this time around.”

“And a Thief no less. Well, set a thief to take a thief, and they say Talos stole his godhead from Shor.” Sharamph smiled slightly. “It’s considered rude to steal from kin but I’m sure you already know that.”

“Lass, I would never steal from my family,” Brynjolf assured her. “We come bearing trade goods, actually. Elven arms and armour, some steel from Haafingar.”

“You raided the Thalmor stronghold?” Larak asked, eyebrows rising. “No one will miss the black-coated bastards, but…”

“They’d taken Etienne and were planning to do him harm,” Brynjolf pointed out. “The Guild really frowns on that sort of thing. Bad precedent and all. Besides, Laina poisoned half the bastards and tore the castle down herself.”

“I had some help from my foremother’s gift,” Laina said, jerking a thumb at Wabbajack. “The Madgoddess has little love for Thalmor, given they murdered a son and grandson of hers.”

Sharamph nodded. “Yes, I see some of Her features in you. Yet you’re sworn to Kynareth?”

“The Storm-Goddess has saved me where Talos failed, the Madgoddess couldn’t go and Malacath was otherwise occupied,” Laina said softly. “She’s fairly tolerant of Her worshippers working with other powers.”

“I wasn’t judging you, child. Kyne is the mother of your race as Malacath is the father of ours.” The womer smiled. “Let us trade lore as wisewomen should while Shuftharz trades for the metal you’ve brought. We are rich in orichalcum but poor in other metals.”

Larak’s Forge-Wife was as keen a haggler as anyone Brynjolf had ever met and soon enough, they had orichalcum daggers and some decent leather armour for Etienne, the promise of honing and tempering for Brynjolf’s ebony daggers, and repairs for his armour. He’d have gotten more in Markarth but he didn’t fancy hauling several sets of armour across the Reach, even if Laina had cast Feather on the handcart to make everything weightless.

Larak’s Hunts-Wife provided dinner, which was a feast of venison, greens and potatoes fried in deer fat, and strong Orcish ale. When they were done eating, Larak leaned back in his chair, belched heartily and sighed in pleasure. “It’s a good thing you’re not an Orc, or I might find myself challenged by you,” he said wryly. “A chief with a dragon’s soul… That would please Malacath.”

Brynjolf grinned. “I’d make a poor chief, lad. Malacath prefers direct battles and I’d rather sneak by an enemy if I can help it.”

“You Reachers are scrawny little bastards,” Larak agreed with a laugh. “I feel making Blood-Kin is too weak a reward, especially after Shuftharz tells me you gave her a bride price’s worth of steel and elven armour today.”

He was about to dismiss what Larak said with a laugh, pointing out it did him little good to carry it all over the Reach, when Laina shook her head subtly. Brynjolf supposed Orcs didn’t take to generosity – or implying that they’d been given useless trash – well.

“Larak, are you sure?” Bagrak, the Hunts-Wife, asked soberly.

“We both know Borgakh doesn’t want to marry a chief,” Larak said with a sigh. “I mean, given the options are Mauhulakh in Narzulbur – and he’s cursed – and that weak halfwit in Largashbur, I can’t blame her.”

“I will do my duty,” the younger Borgakh said stiffly.

“I know, daughter. But you’d be miserable.” Larak smiled crookedly. “I’d say a man with a dragon’s soul would make for a good husband. Bryn seems kind enough and you’d get to travel far and wide. Your grandmother approves of Laina as a First-Wife.”

_Fuck._ He didn’t want to insult Larak and he could see the honour in being offered the chief’s daughter as a bride, but-

“Malacath teaches that strengths in a marriage must be complementary,” Laina mused. “Bryn, for instance, has the charm and tact that I sometimes lack while I have the raw power and strength he doesn’t. Your daughter is strong and fierce, Chief Larak, but I fear that strength and fierceness would be wasted in a marriage with Bryn because I already supply it. Etienne, my husband’s adopted son, has the kindness and warmth Borgakh seeks while she has the strength and fierceness to aid him as a wife should. Would you be greatly offended if we offer bride price for Etienne instead of Bryn?”

Etienne blinked as Larak stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Er, yes, I didn’t plan on marrying so soon but-“

“That is acceptable to me, if it is acceptable to Borgakh,” the Chief agreed with a smile. “This will allow her to visit the strongholds freely while fulfilling the needs of her heart.”

“Etienne bathes more than Mauhulakh and isn’t cursed,” Borgakh said, smiling. “He is acceptable to me.”

And that was how Etienne Rarnis wound up with an Orcish wife. It wasn’t what Bryn would have decided but he supposed they had to go along with it.

The next morning, they left Mor Khazgur with well wishes and Borgakh in tow. “Thank you for this,” she said to Laina. “I was torn between my wishes and the needs of the tribe.”

“You have no problems being married to a Thief?” Bryn asked, eyebrows rising.

“Etienne can’t be as bad as Mauhulakh would have been. Every one of his wives has perished after bearing a child or two and he’s ruled by his aunts. I didn’t want to die because he’s cursed.”

“I’ve heard about that,” Laina observed. “The one time I went to Narzulbur for ebony, I… well, I was very polite to the wisewoman. She had a larger array of poisons than typical for a stronghold.”

Borgakh’s mouth tightened. “That sounds grim, wisewoman.”

“I’ve used poisons myself a few times. I know most of the common ones.” Laina pushed back her hair. “Courtship takes a bit longer among the lowlanders than it does among Orcs and sometimes it doesn’t work out. If you and Etienne don’t suit, there’ll be no shame on either side.”

“That’s kind of you. But Etienne told me some of what he endured last night. He didn’t break under the blackcoats.” She gave the little Breton a surprisingly sweet smile. “I will be a good Hunts-Wife to him.”

Etienne blushed. “I, er, don’t mind.”

Brynjolf nodded slowly. “Well, lass, may you both have a long and happy marriage. I should give you fair warning though that Markarth’s likely to be unpleasant for any number of reasons. I was betrayed by Mercer Frey-“

“You too!” Etienne blurted. “That bastard sold me to the Thalmor because they wanted to find Esbern, the old crazy dragon guy!”

“Is that his name? I will give you his head as a wedding gift,” Borgakh promised.

“Happy hunting, lass,” Brynjolf told her with a smile.

“Once we have that translation codex, we’ll need to cut through Whiterun, stop off at Fellglow Keep to retrieve those books Orthorn stole, and get back to Winterhold,” Laina said grimly. “Esbern’s the last living loremaster of the Blades. All the dragonlore I know, he gave me.”

“He’s nuttier than a fruitcake, lass.”

“He was the closest thing I had to a grandfather as a child.” Laina’s eyes were distant. “Gods forgive me, but I’ll need to activate Marius. He will be able to get to Riften quicker than we can to extract Esbern.”

“I’ll do one better, lass,” Bryn said quietly. “Your da, you said his name was Rustem, right?”

“Yes,” Laina said slowly.

“If he’s a blue-eyed Redguard, he’s a Dark Brother these days. I told my cousin Muiri to ask for the Brotherhood’s help after the Shatter-Shields threw her out on her ear and Rustem was the one they sent.” Brynjolf smiled grimly. “He did his job rather well and to Muiri’s specifications. If he was twenty years younger, she’d have proposed to him.”

“Rustem Aurelius is one of the reasons why Sigdrifa Stormsword’s all kinds of fucked up,” Laina said softly. “He’s not husband material.”

“Aye, but he’s fast and deadly. I’ll send a message through Muiri and ask him to help Esbern.” Brynjolf tilted his head. “Unless a message from you would work better?”

Laina shook her head. “I’m still pretty bitter towards most of my family. Make Rustem useful for a change.”

He nodded. “Very well, lass. Once we’re in Markarth, I’ll handle it.”


	14. Inheritance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes, genocide and religious conflict. Fuck the Silver-Bloods (no, don’t, because they don’t deserve love). My backstory for Brynjolf draws heavily from colonial abductions of Indigenous children that were intended to break their cultural ties and connections in order to make them conform to settler culture. Sigdrifa is the Indigenous child who assimilated and turned on her Indigenous culture; Brynjolf is the Indigenous child who managed to maintain some cultural identity as a means of defiance; Laina is the Indigenous child raised completely outside culture but came back later in life. While this story is lighter hearted than my previous one, I still can’t write the Reach without touching on this.

“My ma was killed here during the massacre of Karthwasten,” Brynjolf said softly as they entered the small valley in which the mining village lay. “I haven’t been here in over twenty years. Never could bear…”

“We can press on to Markarth,” Laina offered gently.

Brynjolf shook his head. “No, lass. It’s too dark and there’s no safe place to camp between here and Markarth. Ainethach will give us hospitality.”

Ainethach had to be the short middle-aged man with the tattoos of a landowner on his face who, backed up by a Nord and an Orcish womer, demanded four well-armoured mercenaries leave his mine.

“Watch your tongue, native. We'll leave when we're sure there are no Forsworn here,” sneered the chief mercenary.

“Oh, and when would that be, I wonder? When I sell my land to the Silver-Bloods?” Ainethach asked sarcastically.

“The Silver-Bloods have made you a very generous offer for this pile of dirt. I suggest you take it,” the mercenary suggested.

“If Ainethach loses Suaranach, the Silver-Bloods will own every mine in the Reach,” Brynjolf hissed in alarm.

Laina called magicka to her hand. “Well, Cousin Kaie asked us to deal with them. We might as well start now.”

Borgakh unlimbered her Orcish bow. “Go for the leader first. Silver-Blood mercenaries are chosen for their cheapness, not their skill, so only the commander will have any competency in battle.”

“You’ve had experience with them?” Etienne asked meekly.

“They tried to take Mor Khazgur’s mine once. Not that Nords use orichalcum much, but they couldn’t stand the thought of not owning every hole in the ground,” Borgakh explained as she nocked an arrow. “We persuaded them otherwise.”

Laina shaped her magicka into an ugly red glow. “I’ll cast Frenzy on the leader, you shoot the most dangerous of the other three. Brynjolf and Etienne can make sure of them.”

“I can see why you’re the Dragonborn’s First-Wife,” Borgakh said with a fierce grin.

Laina’s Frenzy spell struck true just before they reached the mine and the mercenary leader turned on his subordinates just as the second most heavily armoured one fell to an arrow in the eye. “SA!” Brynjolf Shouted, falling on them with his daggers moving with the speed of wind, and Etienne was creeping around and slitting the throats of the fallen. Within five minutes they were nothing but carrion for the crows.

“By the gods,” breathed the Nord miner. “You made them into mincemeat.”

“All in a day’s work,” Laina said, massaging her hands. She really needed a day or two’s break because they’d been fighting almost nonstop since coming to the Reach. The northern Forsworn tended to shoot first and ask questions later, even when Laina tried to make peace-sign. “Those sellswords aren’t a problem anymore.”

“That won't be the last we hear from the Silver-Bloods, but at least we can get back to work,” Ainethach said with a warm smile. “I’m guessing you’re looking for hospitality?”

“Please. We can pay-“

Ainethach waved her silent. “Please, stay for free for as long as you wish. Suaranach is prosperous enough that we can put up a few sellswords for a couple days.”

“Good to see you’re still in charge, lad,” Brynjolf said hoarsely.

“Despite the best efforts of the Silver-Bloods,” Ainethach said dryly. “You look familiar…?”

“I’m Bryn mac Gillam,” Brynjolf answered softly. “Eodwyn and Gillam of the Gates’ lad.”

Ainethach’s eyes widened. “Bryn! I remember when…”

“When the Stormsword came, killed my mother and dragged me kicking and screaming to the lowlands,” Brynjolf finished grimly. “I don’t blame you for standing aside, Ainethach. No one could have stopped the Stormcloaks that day.”

The landowner sighed and closed his eyes. “I tried to preserve what I could. The Silver-Bloods tried to take Suaranach as ‘property seized from traitors’ but because I hadn’t lifted a sword against them, they couldn’t do it. But Kolskeggr… I’m sorry, Bryn. They own it and rent it out to a couple miners.”

Brynjolf shrugged. “I steal gold from the Nords these days and rob the Palace of the Kings once a year.”

“Kolskeggr’s your birthright,” Ainethach said softly.

“So traitors forfeit their property?” Laina asked after giving Brynjolf a sympathetic glance.

“They do indeed, madam mage.” Ainethach’s smile was sour. “Pity Igmund’s more useless than wings on a goat or he’d have seized the Silver-Bloods’ properties by now.”

Laina smiled broadly. “It ain’t over until the fat lady sings.”

After introductions and a meal, Laina found Brynjolf standing over a small mound with nightshade and deathbells, traditional Reach flowers planted on graves, growing from it. “Here’s where Ainethach buried the victims of the Karthwasten massacre,” he said heavily. “My ma’s in there, Laina.”

“And mine put her there,” Laina said softly. “Bryn… I’m so sorry.”

Something in her tone made him sniffle and before she knew it, she was holding him as he wept into her shoulder. Tears fell unnoticed from her own eyes as they grieved for the loss of more than a parent. Whatever moral authority the Stormcloaks might have had was lost here when the Stormsword ordered the massacre of Nords who’d lived, loved and worked with Breton-dominant Reachfolk. The tragedy was that most Stormcloaks wouldn’t even understand what they fought against had been inflicted by them on the people of the Reach.

As the night deepened over the Druadachs, Laina came to understand that no matter what, she needed to stand against her mother and the Silver-Bloods. And that would begin in Markarth.


	15. Gold Bars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of genocide, war crimes and religious conflict.

“Kolskeggr is the second richest mine in the Reach and probably the greatest gold mine in Skyrim,” Brynjolf observed as Laina drew the abundant golden ore from the rock with sorcery. “No wonder the Forsworn took it over.”

“Madanach gave the order that civilians were to be left alone,” Borgakh noted. “I’m guessing some of the hill-clans didn’t get the message.”

“Or they ignored it,” Laina said as she set another handful of ore in the bag the Orc held. “Cousin Kaie said that the northern clans refused to acknowledge his authority.”

“Explains why they didn’t respect peace-sign,” Borgakh growled. “What are we going to do with all this gold?”

“Smelt it into bars,” Laina said simply. “Markarth has some of the finest sellswords in Skyrim and if we can buy out even half of them, the Silver-Bloods will have fewer sources of manpower.”

“You’re wasted in the College, ma’am,” Etienne said with a wry smile. “You’d make a good Guildswoman.”

“Neela-Tai offered me a job in the Bruma branch when she became Corvus, but I’d already decided to come to Skyrim.” Laina shared a smile with Brynjolf. “I think it turned out for the best.”

They slept in the mine and fed themselves from the supplies already there, as was appropriate, after Laina used her magic to turn the Forsworn bodies to ash. Borgakh spent the hours before dawn smelting the gold into ingots, as Laina had decided, and brought back some goat for breakfast. Brynjolf had been subdued since Karthwasten, Etienne’s terse explanation being his mother was buried there after being slain by Laina’s mother, but now he seemed almost normal. She could tell his cheerful roguishness was a façade though.

The surviving miners had fled to Left-Hand Mine, an iron mine, and were pleased to learn the Forsworn were driven away. Pavo didn’t even complain about them taking the gold bars as payment – “Better you than those damned Silver-Bloods” – and promised he’d always trade fairly if they came through the mine. “Might be a good man to keep on as foreman if we can get your mine back,” Laina noted.

“How do you think we’re going to pry it from the Silver-Bloods’ fingers?” Brynjolf asked.

“I have some ideas.”

There was a Khajiit caravan that happily bought Laina’s potions, Borgakh’s pelts, the spare steel weapons from the sellswords that hadn’t been worth smelting or tempering, and a few other odds and ends. “Bryn,” greeted the old cat-man with a raised eyebrow. “This one had heard rumours of your death.”

“Despite Mercer’s best efforts, I’m still around,” Brynjolf said as he fished a gold bar out of the bag. “Will this buy a message or two, lad? I need to be able to contact some people.”

“Three,” the Khajiit promised. “Who?”

Brynjolf pursed his lips. “Do you know of Rustem the Dark Brother?”

The Khajiit made a gesture. “He is known to the caravans. He returned Kharjo’s moon amulet.”

“Tell him Brynjolf says that he must go to Riften and save the Blade Esbern from the Thalmor, because the world itself depends on it,” Brynjolf said softly. “I’d do a Black Sacrament but…”

“You need not worry. Rustem came by yesterday and is in Markarth still,” reported a female Khajiit.

“Keep the fee for the information then,” Brynjolf said easily. “As for the others, tell Sapphire to watch her back around Mercer and get Vex to break into Riftweald Manor. There’s information that will help the Guild.”

“This one will do so,” promised the Khajiit.

“Rustem will be staying at the Hag’s Cure,” supplied the helpful female Khajiit. “He’s friends with Bothela and Muiri.”

“I can imagine,” Laina said ironically.

After making their farewells, they headed towards the city of Markarth, which had been built into and from the mountains by the Dwemer. Outside, a man at the stables was selling a shaggy wolfhound bred by the Nords and Laina gasped in delight. “I’ve never had a puppy before!” she exclaimed.

After some haggling between Brynjolf and the man Banning, Laina became the proud owner of Vigilance, who dog-grinned happily and accepted her pats gleefully. “He’s a warhound,” Banning explained. “Meek as a lamb with his owner but will eat anyone else.”

“Maybe we could feed him some Thalmor,” Etienne muttered in an aside to Borgakh.

“He’s partial to Nords, preferably lowlanders,” Banning said mildly. “But I’m sure he’d appreciate well-bred meat.”

“I see,” Laina noted.

“Lad, do you know when the Jarl holds his audiences?” Brynjolf asked the dog-handler.

“Whenever someone shows up. Igmund’s desperate not to be ignored,” Banning said dryly. “If I could prevail upon ye fine folk, could ye run some meat I’ve got up to Voada? The Jarl feeds his dogs on spiced beef and they prefer the way I prepare it.”

“Aye, lad. I’m Bryn mac Eodwyn. Anything for a kinsman.” Brynjolf accepted the leather bag. If it was beef, it didn’t smell like any beef Borgakh had ever smelt.

Banning smiled. “Welcome home, kinsman. Watch out for the Silver-Bloods.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

Borgakh might have appreciated a warning for the attempted murder at the front gates, even if Laina’s magics saved the hapless red-haired Cyrod woman from death. “I die for my people,” gasped the assassin as a guard ran him through.

The redhead gave Laina a fine silver and emerald necklace while a man with nobleman’s tattoos thrust a letter into her hand as he asked if she was okay. Everything was happening at once and Borgakh tried to figure out if there was more danger coming their way. Etienne’s mouth was tight and she gave her husband’s shoulder a quick clasp as to reassure him without shaming him in front of the others.

The statue of Dibella they’d taken from Kolskeggr turned out to belong to the owner of the trading store, earning them all a rich reward, and what the Khajiit couldn’t buy Lisbet took. Borgakh was a little surprised Laina split the coin between all four of them but accepted her share because she didn’t wish to offend the wisewoman. When asked about mercenaries, Lisbet told Brynjolf that her porter Cosnach and his lover Vorstag sometimes worked as sellswords – though not for the Silver-Bloods. From what Borgakh had learned, that meant they might be vaguely decent people.

“Well, we’re in the thick of it,” Laina said as they crossed the street to the pub. “I think we better sleep on this and get to work tomorrow.”

“Aye, lass. Granma’s probably… well, she’s a Hag of Nocturnal, so she’s probably doing evening rites now.” Brynjolf sighed, his expression painted with regret. “I hope she isn’t angry with me.”

“She’ll understand. And I have a plan.” Laina smiled. “This meat will wait until tomorrow. It’s preserved.”

Vigilance sniffed at the butcher’s stall and the balding Nord smiled, tossing a scrap of red meat to the hound. “I see Banning sold you yon dog,” he noted with a smile. “You’ll come to no danger with Vigilance at your side, milady.”

“I suppose if someone attacks me, it’ll save me the cost of his dinner,” Laina said wryly.

The butcher grinned, a knowing gleam in his eye. “That it will, kinswoman, that it will. Come to me if you want the bloodiest beef in the Reach.”

The Silver-Blood Inn was busy and Brynjolf paid for two rooms, then bought a round of drinks for everyone from the drunken beggar to the two sellswords with one of the gold bars. “To the rightful High King!” he said with a false bright smile, earning cheers from the Nords. But Borgakh knew he referred to the Ard Ri, not the Nords’ one.

The next few days promised to be interesting, to say the least.


	16. Something's Rotten in the State of Markarth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, genocide, torture, cannibalism, war crimes, child abandonment, child death and religious conflict. Markarth is really fucked up, you know that?

“I'm sorry to drag you into Markarth's problems, but after that attack in the market, I'm running out of time,” said the young hillman with the nobleman’s tattoos.

“Why approach us?” Laina asked mildly, motioning Brynjolf to silence.

“You're an outsider. You're dangerous-looking. You'll do.” The young man began to pace around in agitation. “You want answers? Well so do I. So does everyone in this city. A man goes crazy in the market. Everyone knows he's a Forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess.”

“Go on, lad,” Brynjolf said in neutral tones.

“This has been going on for years. And all I've been able to find is murder and blood. I need help. Please. You find out why that woman was attacked, who's behind Weylin and the Forsworn, and I'll pay you for any information you bring me.” He pushed back his long hair. “I have some money saved up.”

“Weylin?” Laina asked softly.

“He was one of the smelter workers. I used to have a job down there myself, casting silver ingots. I never knew much about Weylin, except he lives in the Warrens, like all the other workers.” He sighed. “I don’t know why the Forsworn are still killing people! It all started when I was a boy. My father owned one of the mines. Rare for anyone who isn't a Nord. He was killed. Guards said it was just a madman, but everyone knew the murderer was a member of the Forsworn. I've been trying to find out why ever since. Gotten nowhere so far, and then I got married. Have a child of my own on the way. I swore I was going to just give up, for my child's sake, but it's like my father's ghost is haunting me. Asking me ‘Why?’”

“Silver-Bloods,” Brynjolf said grimly. “They sent some of their scum to try and drive Ainethach off his lands.”

The young man blanched. “My wife, she works in the Treasury House-“

Laina held up a hand to silence him. “I’m of Lost Valley and my husband is Stone Streets and Silver Depths. We will look into this but you’re going to go home, pack up your things, take your wife and go to Ainethach in Karthwasten. He could use a competent smelter and you don’t want to be around when we start prying into things.”

“I’m not afraid,” he said softly.

“Lad, I’ve spent my life in Riften, and the Silver-Bloods are Stormcloak-flavoured Black-Briars so far as I’m concerned,” Brynjolf said firmly. “They’ll come for you and the wife. You might not be afraid… but what about your wife and babe?”

He nodded slowly. “I… understand. Rhiada’s shift is ending in the next hour or so. I think we’ll just leave quietly.”

“Good idea.” Laina ruffled Vigilance’s ears as the dog sat, tongue lolling out, beside her. “The next few days will be interesting.”

“For who?”

“For everyone.”

When the boy was gone, Laina turned to Brynjolf. “That woman was a target, and given I heard a Nibenese accent, I suspect she’s an Imperial agent. I’ll handle the Warrens if you handle her?”

Brynjolf smiled. “It will be my pleasure, lass. What will we have Borgakh and Etienne do?”

Laina pursed her lips. “Keep their eyes and ears out for trouble, I suppose.”

“This will be dangerous, lass. The Silver-Bloods will try to destroy us if we get involved.”

Laina smiled. “That’s why, my dearest, the first act in the play will be for us to become Thanes of the Reach.”

…

“Brynjolf. I suspected the rumours of your demise were a little exaggerated.”

Blue-eyed with long fine iron-grey braids and an iconic bladed spear that Brynjolf now realised was made from dragonbone, Rustem Aurelius was handsome and athletic despite being somewhere in his early sixties, the muscle beneath his red-and-black leathers the envy of men half his age. In the lines of the aquiline profile, the golden stain to his irises and the husky deepness of his voice, Brynjolf could see the resemblance to Laina. He wondered if anyone else could detect the fathomless hunger that made up the core of the Dark Brother’s being, a hunger for something that could never be satisfied.

“I’m sure Mercer’s blaming Karliah for my death,” Brynjolf observed, glancing around his grandmother’s shop. There were subtle references to Nocturnal everywhere and he wondered if Rustem recognised them. “But he’s the traitor.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s as bent as a Bravil septim.”

“Rustem, I’ve mixed up that paralysis poison… Bryn!” Muiri threw the vial to Rustem, who caught it and then rushed to hug Brynjolf. “What are you doing in Markarth?”

“I’m on a job or two, lass, but I can stop by to see my family.” Brynjolf hugged his cousin fiercely, wishing Laina wasn’t in Understone Keep at the moment. She’d have to meet them later. “Does Argis still have his head up his arse?”

“Be nice. He’s stopped the Silver-Bloods from trying to extort money from us. Omlaug’s having trouble with Mulush at the smelters though.” Muiri released him. “I see you already know Rustem.”

“The Brotherhood and the Guild often cross paths,” Rustem said with a smile, examining the vial. “You’re certain this will keep a man paralysed for an hour?”

“Or more,” Muiri promised. “What did he do to piss you off?”

“Quite a bit. I intend to shove a sword down his throat and I want him alive to enjoy the experience.” Rustem tucked the vial into his beltpouch.

“Can you spare time for a trip to Riften?” Brynjolf asked quietly. “It’s urgent and until I get certain things, I can’t go there myself.”

“Mercer’s a cunt and I’d kill him for free, but I’d have to listen to Astrid bitch at me for a week, and with everything I’ve got going on at the moment, I’d rather not,” Rustem answered absently as he reached for his naginata.

“It’s not about Mercer. The Thalmor are close to finding Esbern.”

Rustem paused. “How do you know that name?”

“Old, crazy, talks about Alduin?” Brynjolf’s smile was merciless. “Open secret he’s a Blade, lad. But I can’t let him be killed until he tells me everything he knows because… FEIM!”

Muiri gasped and Rustem blinked as he became a wraith.

“You’re the Dragonborn.” It wasn’t a question.

“I am. Laina and I have been side-tracked because of dragons, vampires, bandits… Mercer’s betrayed the Guild and I need to steal Calcelmo’s translation codex for Low Falmer to prove it. I can’t get to Riften until I have it.”

“Whereas I’m free and able to move fast.” Rustem grabbed his naginata and tugged on his forelock in salute to Muiri. “Tell my daughter that when this is all over, I’d like to talk to her. There’s a lot she doesn’t know about Cloud Ruler but I know she can’t be distracted at the moment. Tell her I’m proud of her for keeping her oaths as a Blade.”

“You know, lad?” Brynjolf asked in shock.

“Catriona’s tattoos don’t work on blood-kin,” Rustem said softly. “I couldn’t adopt her out of the Imperial Workhouse because I’m too distinctive and any agent I sent was shut down because the Synod had already bagged her for their own. So I killed any son of a bitch who figured out who she was, destroyed the evidence of her existence and made sure she was as safe as I could manage.”

“I know she’s the Stormsword’s get,” Brynjolf told him. “Would you believe we’re getting married when this is all over?”

Rustem’s smile was evil. “Sigdrifa’s shrieks would be heard all over Skyrim.”

“If the Stormsword knew the lass was an agent of Madanach, they’d be heard clear to the moon.”

Muiri burst into laughter. “I’ve lived in Windhelm. If Sigdrifa knew all of this, she’d be heard in _Oblivion._ ”

“You’re taking the news rather well, lass,” Brynjolf told her.

His cousin smiled. “I can think of no greater fuck you to the Stormcloaks than to know Ulfric’s stepdaughter’s a Forsworn agent. Besides, Rustem’s a friend and he did me a favour.”

Rustem shrugged easily. “The Shatter-Shields were dickheads and now Torbjorn’s a grieving widower with no family, Suvaris can channel more of his wealth into feeding the Argonian and Dunmer employees. They shouldn’t have blamed you for Alain, sweetie.”

Muiri beamed at him. “I’d have asked Bryn but Granma said the Guild was cursed because someone had offended Nocturnal and framing them of treason wouldn’t have worked.”

_Delvin was right,_ Brynjolf thought with dismay. _The Guild is cursed._

“I’ll be in Riften by the day after tomorrow,” Rustem promised softly. “Remember… a Dragonborn makes their own luck.”

He left on the heels of that cryptic statement, leaving Brynjolf confused.


	17. Like Calls to Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter touches on Laina’s three days in the ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple, which is a time I’ll never write directly because it’s some fucked-up trauma. Read the trigger warnings, folks, because I’ve warned you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, cannibalism (and related puns because Eola’s sense of humour is warped), corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, genocide, war crimes and religious conflict.

“Not many would walk blindly into a crypt, smelling of magicka and blood, but not fear,” crooned the sweet soprano with its seductive undertone. “I feel the hunger inside of you. Gnawing at you.”

Laina sighed. “Lady Namira, I have no quarrel with you. I bear Wabbajack and am born of the Madgoddess’ blood and I earned Dawnbreaker fairly. I’ve defied Vaermina. While I’m fairly philosophical about you and yours chowing down on the Nord dead and understand the hill-clans honour you in funeral rites, could I politely ask you to dine elsewhere? The Silver-Bloods are already riled and they’re going to be a lot more pissed off before I’m done and I’m sure you’d rather your worshippers not get caught up in that.”

“You see the dead and your mouth grows wet. Your stomach growls. It's all right. I will not shun you for what you are. Stay. I will tell you everything you have forgotten,” continued the voice from the far end of the crypt.

“For fuck’s sake,” Laina sighed again. “Vigilance, track.”

A burble of laughter came from the shadows. “Vigilance knows what I am. And what you are. Banning would never have sold you to him if he didn’t recognise a kindred spirit.”

“I am Laina mac Catriona and if you don’t get your arse out of here _right now_ , Vigilance will chew on your bones,” Laina promised darkly as lightning bloomed in her hand. The comment gave meaning to the cryptic comments of Banning and Hogni – and who else would be part of a cannibal cult?

“Easy, sister,” laughed the voice. “I’m not your enemy. But we both know you’ve tasted the flesh of a sentient being. It's okay, now. You've found a friend who understands you. You can let go of your guilt.”

A small, slim Breton emerged from the darkness, her face tattooed in simple lines and one eye gleaming like the silver moon in deceptively delicate features.

“I’m not a cannibal,” Laina said softly.

“A lot of our kind block out the memory of their first meal. The shame is too much. But you don't need to hide anymore. Namira, the Lady of Decay, accepts you for what you are. She has a place for us, where we can sate our appetites without judgment.”

“I’ll decline,” Laina said flatly. “I’d rather not recall my time in the ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple, if you please.”

“Oh, sweetie, it was survival, wasn’t it?” the Namiran asked gently. “Your tale’s known in the hills of the Reach.”

“It’s known in a lot of places,” Laina growled. “I’m warning you. Stop pressing this button or you’ll regret it. Take yourself off and desecrate someone else’s dead.”

The Namiran held up her hands in peace-sign. “I apologise. Banning and Hogni misread some of your behaviour and given you’d assisted a third member of our coven, I thought the Lady of Decay had sent a friend to aid us in our time of need.”

Laina wrestled down old memories and shoved them firmly back into the box she kept them. “Is there a reason why you’re eating dried rations that carry a high risk instead of fresh meat readily available on the roads of the Reach?”

“Well, part of it is to regain the strength that the lowland Nords have leached from our people,” the Namiran admitted. “But most of it is because our usual place of worship’s been overrun by draugr and of us all, I’m the only one with any kind of combat ability, and those undead arseholes drove me away. When you arrived, bought Vigilance, obliterated a Forsworn assassin in about five seconds and handed Lisbet back her statue of Dibella, I thought Namira sent you and started leaving hints for that idiot Verulus to pick up and hire you.”

It was so outlandish yet so plausible in the Reacher religion to make such an assumption that Laina just had to burst into incredulous laughter. She wiped her eyes as the Namiran began to laugh at the absolute absurdity of it.

“I’m a worshipper of Kynareth,” Laina said, wiping her eyes. “The Storm-Goddess is a little more forgiving of what’s done for the needs of survival than the other two Mothers.”

“Namira’s worship does bring tangible rewards,” the Namiran noted.

“Maybe so, but I’d rather not go there.” Laina folded her arms as Vigilance ran up to the Namiran to be patted. “If I clear out your place of worship, will you stop eating the dead here?”

“Of course.” The Namiran licked her lips. “I was mostly doing it to get your attention… and piss off the Silver-Bloods. Even in death they taste like blood and greed.”

Laina nodded, pursing her lips. “Do you mind killing two birds with one stone? I’ve heard someone’s kidnapped the new Sibyl of Dibella-“

“They did _what_?” yelped the Namiran in outrage.

“Briarheart at Broken Tower Redoubt,” Laina said softly. “He raided Karthwasten and stole the girl Fjotra, who is the new Dibellan Sybil.”

“That is in direct defiance of the Ard Ri’s orders,” growled the Namiran. “We aren’t to offend the gods other than Talos!”

Laina nodded grimly. “I’m Lost Valley and Cousin Kaie’s given me the mandate to do something about the Silver-Bloods, but it’s a long game because I’m juggling _other_ problems including the dragons. First things first, me and the husband – Bryn mac Gillam – need to become Thanes.”

“Of course. Foot in the door and all of that.” The Namiran sighed. “I’m Eola mac Kaleen of Holy Mountain. I’ll lend you a hand if you help us.”

Laina nodded. “Fantastic. We’ll leave tomorrow. I just need to get a translation for my husband first.”

Eola smiled. “It’s in Calcelmo’s laboratory and I know a hidden entrance. Follow me.”

…

“Lass! You did it!”

Brynjolf grabbed Laina, whirled her around in a dance, and laughed like a boy after she’d handed over a rolled sheet of charcoal-smeared paper with Atmorani runes and the script she called Low Falmer. “We’ve got the bastard!”

“I had some help,” she said, her smile shadowed. “Eola mac Kaleen of Holy Mountain.”

From her place at the counter, his grandmother Bothela whistled. “Namira’s High Priestess. She’ll extract a price for that help, lass.”

“I’ve promised to help clear out the Namiran coven’s place of worship,” Laina admitted with a sigh. “I’m good, but Eola’s just as good, and Vigilance was trained by the coven.”

Brynjolf wrapped an arm around Laina’s waist, gave her a comforting smile, and guided her closer to his grandmother and cousin. “Laina mac Catriona of Lost Valley, Granma.”

“The one who got herself mistaken for a celebrant by the Namiran coven,” Bothela noted wryly. “The Listener’s daughter. The Madgoddess’ heir. Champion of Meridia.”

“My father’s the Listener!” Laina exclaimed in surprise. “I never knew him to be good at taking orders!”

Bothela laughed. “I get the impression his mother makes suggestions he is wise to heed. Sithis is the Dread Father, sire to Nocturnal and Namira and all the other gods who live in the shadows of the world. You have accepted your inner darkness, haven’t you?”

“I’ve done dark and dire things to survive,” Laina said softly.

“And others have done the same to keep you and Bryn alive. Your da sends his love. He’s a friend of the family.” Bothela’s shrewd gaze studied Laina until even the mage looked a little perturbed by the scrutiny. “Rescue Dibella’s Sybil and help Namira’s coven, lass. The left and the right hand must work as one in this. Focus on your work and leave Bryn to his.”

She nodded. “Then I’ll leave with Eola, Vorstag and Cosnach in the morning.”

It was a rare family gathering that night, Brynjolf sharing the table with his other cousin Argis, who glared down at him with one brown eye. The Bulwark had joined the Hold guard and made a name for himself as incorruptible – what irritated Brynjolf was that it was true. But even as kids, his cousin irritated him on an existential level, and the feeling was entirely mutual.

Omlaug’s overseer had been sorted out, enquiries in the Warrens and Treasury House produced some interesting information, and Laina reported Igmund had hired her to retrieve his father’s shield – which happened to be at the same redoubt that held the Sybil of Dibella in defiance of the Ard Ri’s orders. Brynjolf would make copies of the charcoal rubbings and send them to Enthir tomorrow, then run around Markarth trying to find out more about the apparently collaboration between Forsworn killers and Silver-Blood interests.

_Tomorrow, I’ll speak to Nepos,_ he decided. _Old man can give me some straight answers._

Tomorrow would be an eventful day but tonight, for the first time in a long while, he could sit with his family and pretend nothing had changed between them.


	18. Not the Silver-Bloods' Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, cannibalism, imprisonment and mentions of torture, war crimes, religious conflict, child abuse and genocide.

“I’m getting a little tired of you turning our enemies into sweet rolls,” Eola groused as they approached Broken Tower Redoubt.

“Okay,” Laina said as she pointed the staff in the direction of the screaming Forsworn guard, a brilliant spark of light enveloping the hapless woman and transforming her into several wheels of cheese.

“Really, cheese?” Eola asked in disgusted disbelief.

“I thought you’d want some to go with your whine,” Laina observed dryly.

Behind them, Vorstag chuckled and Cosnach snickered.

They had to kill remarkably few people at the redoubt as Eola pointed out that there was a Namiran High Priestess and a Champion of two Daedric Princes facing them. Most of them slunk away, only a few fanatics and the Briarheart offering a fight, and soon enough the place was looted and Fjotra was being led (with her eyes closed) from whatever grim fate the renegades planned for her. “Take her back to Karthwasten to farewell her parents, then get her to Markarth and the Temple,” Laina ordered Cosnach and Vorstag.

“You’re not coming with us?” Vorstag asked.

“I have some business to attend to. Tell Bryn I’ll be back at the end of the week.”

“You’re confident of our ability to take on a tomb full of draugr,” Eola noted as the mercenaries left.

“I was tomb-raiding before the age of twenty and now I wield Dawnbreaker and Wabbajack, there’s not a lot of draugr that can take me on and win,” Laina said simply.

They reached the tomb at Reachcliff Cave and the draugr there weren’t particularly dangerous to Laina now she had Dawnbreaker, but she could see where the Shouting one would have given Eola some grief. The grave goods weren’t anything spectacular but Eola urged her to keep them regardless. “Now we just need to reconsecrate the place,” she said with a sigh.

“Don’t ask me,” Laina said quietly, grip tightening on Dawnbreaker because Eola’s gaze had a predatory gleam to it.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve assisted our coven. Besides, you could be one of us, even if you don’t like to admit it.” Eola shrugged. “I’m thinking of that Cyrod Priest of Arkay. He’s refused to allow Reachfolk to follow their traditional religious rites and even had a Hag executed as a witch by the Legion.”

“Bad idea,” Laina warned. “You could wind up getting Irkand Aurelius on your tail. He was the Blades’ best assassin before he took vows to Arkay and he fights twice as dirty and has about forty years of experience on you.”

“Death’s Blade?” Eola shuddered. “I’ve heard of him. But we need a special meal to bless the place. Preferably one who’s an enemy of our people.”

“Why not a Silver-Blood?” Laina mused.

“Because none of them go out with anything less than two bodyguards,” Eola sighed.

Laina grinned. “I have an idea. First, we need some Shieldmaiden armour…”

…

“Look, my lord Thongvor, the Stormsword herself has travelled in great secrecy to warn you,” the guard said, wringing his hands. “I know Reachcliff Cave is some distance from Markarth but the locals avoid it because a coven of Namira used to worship there. Thonar would be missed if we went.”

Thongvor sighed and nodded. “If she’s trying to warn me that there’s a Nord bastard asking uncomfortable questions, I already know and Thonar’s handling it.”

“Oh no. It’s worse than that.” The guard chewed his lip. “She said something about an alliance between the Forsworn and the Legion.”

“What?” yelped the Silver-Blood. “Let me get my bodyguard!”

Yngvar the Singer clearly wanted to be elsewhere as they rode through the night to Reachcliff Cave. “I don’t like the smell of this,” he said, regarding the guard worriedly.

“Between you and me, there’s nothing we can’t fight off… and if we didn’t show up and Sigdrifa was here personally, we’d be lucky to avoid an assassination attempt,” Thongvor sighed.

There were several people inside the tomb seated at the table, a few of them prominent citizens of Markarth, and Sigdrifa herself sat at the head of the table in her iconic armour. The candlelight cast bronze shadows on sun-browned skin, indicating the Stormsword had gotten some more sunshine recently, and her blue-green eyes were the colour of seawater instead of her more usual sea-ice. “I wasn’t expecting company,” Thongvor noted as he entered.

“There’s a new dawn in the Reach and these people want to be part of it,” Sigdrifa answered, her unlovely voice hoarser and deeper than usual. “Money alone can’t pay for everything. You need loyal allies to maintain your grip on the Reach.”

“Loyalty can be bought,” Thongvor said with a roll of his eyes.

“And yet you haven’t tried to purchase the loyalty of the natives?”

“We’ve spent hundreds of years trying to civilise the brutes and barely made headway,” Thongvor reminded her. “Sometimes I think we should have just cleansed the Reach of their filth and imported true Nords to make this place a true holy land of Talos.”

Sigdrifa simply stared at him, her gaze now colder than the dark between the stars, and Thongvor began to feel a little uneasy.

“Now, now, there’s no need to be unpleasant,” crooned a Reachwoman seated at the table. “Poor Thongvor and Yngvar have travelled such a long, long way in the dark, way past their bedtime, and I’m sure they must be tired. Why don’t you boys have a nice little nap…”

Yngvar keeled over, snoring before he hit the ground, and Thongvor reached for his sword… only for every muscle in his body to freeze as Sigdrifa’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction.

“Enjoy your meal,” she said ironically as she pushed herself away from the table.

“You’re welcome to join us if you’d like,” the Reachwoman offered.

“Eola, for the hundredth time, I’m not going there.” The woman with Sigdrifa’s face paused, her gaze elsewhere, and shook her head. “Namira, thanks for the offer, but no. Juggling two Daedric artefacts is enough of a chore that I’d rather not add a third. The attention of too many gods can be a burden for a mortal soul to bear.”

“Dushnikh Yal isn’t far away and you’re Blood-Kin, so they’ll give you hospitality,” Hogni Red-Arm noted.

“Thanks. I’ll see you lot in the morning.” The woman in Shieldmaiden’s armour walked out, leaving Thongvor paralysed and helpless.

The Reachwoman, her smile predatory, reached for an ebony dagger. “Oh, this will be a fine feast indeed…”

Thongvor spent the rest of his life screaming.

…

Etienne burst into their room, startling Borgakh. “Those Silver-Blood bastards framed Bryn for the Forsworn murders and they’re taking him to Cidhna Mine.”

Borgakh rose, pulled on a tunic, and reached for her armour. “Get his cousin Argis. We need to see the Jarl.”

But Jarl Igmund wouldn’t see an Orc and her husband, instead expressing relief that the murderer had been caught. The man was a fool and had no right to be chief of this Hold. No wonder the Reach was in such a mess.

Etienne was pacing around the second level of Understone Keep, hands running through his dark hair. “Gods, they say Cidhna’s worse than Northwatch Keep. We need to get Bryn out of there. He’s the Dragonborn, dammit!”

“Dragonborn?” announced the haughty tones of an Altmer, bulky for one of his ilk underneath gold-edged black robes. “You’re certain he’s the Dragonborn?”

“He’s the Dragonborn and chief of my warband, Thalmor,” Borgakh growled. “Those damned Silver-Bloods…”

She paused and allowed herself a cold smile. Malacath taught that the hatred of an enemy could be harnessed as a weapon. “You have the authority to arrest Talos worshippers, don’t you? Well, Thongvor admitted to Talos worship in my hearing and it makes sense his brother worships Talos too since they support the Stormcloaks.”

“Where’s Laina?” asked the mer quietly. “She hasn’t been seen for a few days.”

“She can take care of herself,” Borgakh retorted curtly. “What business of it is yours-?”

“You’re Ondolemar, aren’t you?” Etienne interrupted quickly. “You’re the Thalmor who pulled her from the ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple.”

Ondolemar’s smile was thin. “I am, among other things.”

“Laina’s on external business. The Dragonborn’s a native son of the Reach and she’s trying to get him into the Jarl’s court as a Thane,” Etienne said quietly. “If you want to help, arrest Thonar. That means all his holdings are expropriated and we can boost the Dragonborn from prison.”

The mer slowly smiled. “I’m the Chief Justicar in Skyrim. I might be able to do that but it will leave a very messy and public trail. Do you really want to do that?”

“Of course. The Stormcloaks will retaliate, of course, and it would be a very great shame if the courageous Justicar Ondolemar were to suffer a _tragic_ death on the heels of his brethren at Northwatch Keep,” Etienne observed cryptically. “It is a time of prophecy and portent. Who knows what hero of the past will emerge to fulfil his oaths at the end of days?”

Ondolemar paused. “Hmm. An interesting point. Things are brewing in Cidhna Mine. I’ll have my two guards escort Thonar to the jail. I’m sure Madanach will welcome the chance for vengeance.”

Etienne’s smile was savage. “I rather think he would.”

…

“You bring me an interesting gift, Justicar.”

Madanach looked up from the prone, groaning body of Thonar Silver-Blood to the bulky form of Ondolemar, accompanied by two guards, all resplendent in their black and gold. “We were about to leave. But for this present, you may turn around and go back to Understone Keep.”

“Oh no. How terrible. Justicar Ondolemar and his loyal guards were murdered by savage Forsworn during their prison break. What a tragedy.” The sarcasm in the mer’s voice was thicker than fog in the morning.

“My lord?” asked one of the guards in alarm, turning to face him, but Ondolemar’s hand reached out to drive her nose into her brain with an ugly murderous crunch. The other guard went for his sword but Ondolemar hooked his foot around an ankle, bringing him to the ground, and a Bound Sword in the form of a katana appeared out of nowhere to be driven through his gut.

Beside Madanach, Bryn mac Gillam began to grin. “Laina said you were good, Marius.”

The mer he called Marius twisted the sword in the guard’s gut, producing a spasm and a choked-off cry. “Your friend Etienne reminded me that I had taken oaths and if this is the end of days, I’d rather die as a Blade than a Justicar.”

“Oh no, how tragic,” Madanach agreed with a savage grin. “I’ll let you keep your life, Talosite, in return for giving me Thonar’s.”

“I’ve taken to worshipping Auriel these days. The Thalmor perverted His worship…” Marius sighed, dropping his robes. “Find a dead Nord. I’ll mutilate his carcass under the cave-in this place is about to experience.”

Madanach would have liked to draw out Thonar’s death but… well, dead was dead and he wouldn’t go to Sovngarde. So he buried a pick in the man’s skull and ordered his people out.

Spiders and Dwemer spiders weren’t much of a threat with several Forsworn, a Dragonborn and a Blade, and soon they were out on the moonlit streets of Markarth where some Orc womer, a Breton in leather armour, and Kaie awaited. “I’ve dealt with Igmund, made it look like Stormcloak assassins,” his niece reported cheerfully. “Argis and Nepos are in place.”

“I didn’t approve of this!” Madanach hissed in alarm.

“Things have changed, uncle. The Empire won’t let us go.” Kaie sighed. “Argis is one of us, at least, and he’s promised to marry a Reachwoman from the loyalist clans. I was going to have Laina and Bryn take care of our traitors but Bryn being thrown into prison ruined that part.”

Madanach swore.

“It could be worse, lad,” Bryn said dryly as he pulled on his Guild leathers. “They could be making me Jarl.”

“Nothing personal, Bryn, but we’d rather not have a Dragonborn rule us again,” Kaie told him. “You and Laina have external responsibilities to the gods that prevent you from being rulers.”

“As I said, lass, it could be worse. I’d rather drink poison than rule anything.” Bryn raked a hand through his messy auburn hair. “Now what?”

Madanach smiled thinly. “Now we kill every bastard who’s ever wronged the Forsworn on our way out. FOR THE REACH!”


	19. Never Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of criminal acts, imprisonment, torture, genocide, war crimes and religious conflict.

“Rest in pieces, arsehole.”

Esbern slid open the keyhole of his chained door to see the last Thalmor agent crumple to the ground, blood splatter everywhere as head and torso followed the already collapsed legs. A naginata, forged from the bones of dragons, was wiped on the robes. Of all the people he expected to find him, Rustem was fairly low on the list.

“Still fond of your little quips, I see,” Esbern said gruffly as he began to unlock the door. “How did they find me?”

“Tortured some poor bastard named Etienne. The Dragonborn’s a Thief, if you can believe it.” Rustem laid his naginata against the wall before tying his long braids back with a leather thong. “Mercer Frey sold them both out to the Thalmor.”

“Son of a bitch!” Esbern cursed. “What now?”

“I’m getting you out.”

“I didn’t know you still held to your vows as a Blade.”

“I don’t. But Sithis needs the world to define Him, so…”

The door opened and Rustem entered. “Grab what you can, old man,” he ordered gently. “It’s going to be a long ride to Winterhold.”

“There’s a Thalmor there!” Esbern told him in a strangled tone.

“Well, you’re welcome to stay at the Sanctuary instead,” Rustem answered dryly.

Esbern grabbed the essentials, stuffed them into a bag and cursed the Thalmor back to the days of the Second Era.

They exited the lower Ratways and found more Thalmor agents in the upper tunnels, only for Rustem to freeze them solid with a glance and then shatter them into icy bloody gobbets of flesh on the way through. “You haven’t lost your touch,” Esbern observed.

“I’ve kept up my practice,” Rustem said modestly.

“Did you and Sigdrifa get that divorce you wanted?” Esbern ventured.

“She sent an assassin to poison me and my new lover’s household, pretended Callaina never existed and lied to her new father-in-law’s teeth about being a Shieldmaiden,” Rustem said over his shoulder. “I chose to take that all as an act of divorcement.”

“I wonder what scripture of Talos she got those ideas from,” Esbern mused ruefully.

“Who cares? Someone’s going to kill her soon and I hope I get to watch.”

“I see you’ve moved on from the disappointments of your past.”

There were no more Thalmor in the Ratways and when they emerged into the Ragged Flagon, there was an argument going on between two of the Guildmasters. “What do you mean Mercer’s vanished?” demanded the albino Cyrod.

“He’s fucked off somewhere,” retorted the bald Breton. “Said he had business.”

“And you believed him?” Rustem asked dryly. “Go burglarise Riftweald Manor. I know he’s sold out Etienne Rarnis to the Thalmor.”

Esbern found himself the focus of several gimlet stares from the Thieves.

“He fucking what?” demanded the bald Breton.

“Sold out Etienne Rarnis, stabbed Brynjolf in the gut, and apparently pissed off Nocturnal – you know, the patron goddess of thieves and all,” Rustem answered, unperturbed.

“Bryn’s alive?” asked the innkeeper.

“He was a few days ago. He asked me to save Esbern here because he and Etienne were working on something.” Rustem gave a broad bright smile. “Have a nice day and watch out for random Thalmor.”

He sauntered out, ignoring the demands for more explanation, and Esbern followed him, shaking his head. Rustem hadn’t changed a bit in twenty-five years.

…

“Argis couldn’t be rid of us fast enough,” Brynjolf noted as the carriage trundled along the stone roads of the Reach. Madanach was reportedly wresting back control of the northern hill-clans from the renegades and so they’d be able to travel unmolested to Whiterun. From there they could hit Fellglow Keep and cut through the Pale to return to Winterhold, then go south with proof of Mercer’s betrayal and clear Karliah’s name with the Guild, then go to High Hrothgar. After that Brynjolf wasn’t sure what they’d do next.

_Kill more dragons,_ he mused. Almost every mountaintop in Skyrim was now infested with the beasts.

“You’re a threat to his chiefdom, even if you aren’t interested, because of what you are,” Ghorbash the Iron-Hand, an Orcish Legion veteran Laina knew from her service in the Anvil Third, observed quietly. The Orc had been welcomed back home to his home stronghold in defiance of traditional culture but jumped at the chance to fight dragons with his brother’s blessing. Maybe there was something more to his leaving Dushnikh Yal…

“Argis can have the damned job,” Brynjolf said fervently. “There’s no way the hill-clans would follow a Dragonborn, even if he’s a Reacher.”

“But the remnant Nord landowning class would try to make you Jarl anyway,” Laina said sombrely. “Whether we like it or not, you were a divisive figure. Until things settle down…”

Brynjolf sighed and nodded. She was right. “Well, Vorstag and Cosnach are Thanes at least and Eltrys managed to escape the Silver-Bloods with his wife.”

“We’ll offload the loot we can’t use in Whiterun,” Etienne said, leaning against his wife. “I’m glad to see the last of Markarth.”

“I hope Father got to Riften in time,” Laina fretted. “If we lose Esbern…”

“Your Da moves swiftly,” Brynjolf assured her. “My concern is that Mercer might get away with all he’s done.”

“He won’t. The messages you sent through Ri’saad will likely be heeded.” Laina went silent again, brooding as the wagon trundled on.

Brynjolf let her as he had a lot to consider himself. Until the guards had overwhelmed him and dragged him off to Cidhna Mine, he’d never been imprisoned in a place where he couldn’t escape. If it hadn’t been for Madanach and Marius, he wasn’t sure what he would have done.

_Gone mad,_ he thought glumly. Like any Reacher, he was a child of the sky, and the thought of losing it was enough to drive him into a deep dark depression.

He made a vow. Never again would he allow himself to be imprisoned, no matter what.


	20. The Western Watchtower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, cannibalism and claustrophobia.

“Brit grah! I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals provide!”

“Well then, lad, enjoy this!” Brynjolf retorted just before striking the dragon with a Shout that caused actual chunks of ice to form on its hide. Stunned and apparently paralysed, the beast hit the side of the tower it had attacked and then ploughed into the earth, leaving a wake of rich dark overturned soil. Laina capitalised on its weakness by levitating bits of rubble and throwing them at the wings, breaking the relatively fragile webs of hide and bone. The Dunmer leading the Whiterun guards threw lightning at it as her archers began to pepper it with arrows. Helpless and being nibbled to death by ants, the dragon let out an anguished “DOVAHKIIN? NIID!” as Brynjolf’s daggers sought and found its heart.

Once it was bleached bones with the usual tangle of metal in its belly, the womer wiped her forehead with the back of an ash-grey hand. “That overgrown lizard wasn’t pleased to see you five,” she noted.

“Brynjolf here can suck their souls out like seeds from a grape,” Laina confirmed, giving the Thief a quick glance to make sure he was okay. Physically, he was, but his time spent in Cidhna had left its mark. They should talk soon. “So no, dragons aren’t happy to meet him.”

The womer laughed evilly. “There’s a couple more plaguing Whiterun and Balgruuf has bounties on them. If you need some quick coin…”

Her name, it turned out, was Irileth. “Named for the Nerevarine?” Etienne asked.

“Something like that,” Irileth murmured. “Farengar will want this one’s bones and Balgruuf will want to reward you.”

“Will the Jarl be offended if we offload some loot from our trip first, lass?” Brynjolf asked, flashing his brilliant roguish smile.

“Not at all. He’ll make a profit from what you sell one way or another,” the womer laughed.

Even in Winterhold, Balgruuf’s financial acumen was proverbial. His city was clean and prosperous, even the beggars having meat on their bones, and soon enough the last loot from the Reach was turned into coin and that coin transformed into better equipment and other necessary supplies. “I’ll enchant your arms and armour,” Laina promised Etienne and the Orcs. “Stamina and health-draining enchantments for the weapons, fire and frost resistance on the armour. I haven’t seen the dragon that farts lightning yet.”

“You’ve improved since the Anvil Third,” Ghorbash noted.

“Improve or die,” Laina answered with a shrug.

Ghorbash grinned. “Indeed. It is the way of Malacath.”

They were on their way to Dragonsreach when Laina caught Brynjolf’s arm, drawing him to the back of the group. “How are you coping?” she asked softly. “I imagine you’re under a lot of strain at the moment.”

“I’m doing fine, lass,” he said with a patently false smile.

_“Brynjolf.”_

The smile slid from his face to be replaced by bleak determination. “I’m never going to jail again, lass. I never realised how much I needed the sky until I lost it.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you, lass? To be closed in by earth and darkness until you feel like the clean air is gone?”

“I spent three days in the ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple, trapped because I had enough Alteration to use Telekinesis and Ironflesh to shield myself, but not enough to lift an entire roof. I survived…” Laina shuddered. “I won’t get into details, but there was a reason why the Namirans thought I was one of them. Even now, Brynjolf, I can’t stand to be in tight dark quarters. I can only imagine how much worse Cidhna Mine was.”

He shuddered and flung himself into her arms, weeping into her shoulder, and she wrapped herself around him. The Reach had left scars on them, scars that would never fade. As to what that meant for the future, only the gods would know.

…

Brynjolf realised what it was that made Laina so attractive to him: it was her ability to stare unflinchingly into the darkness of a man’s soul and remain… not unmoved by it, but able to understand it because she had been there too. The Reach had brought out that side of her which came from the Stormsword, and it had come out in spades, in inventively cruel ways that would have left Sigdrifa speechless. Only Laina could coldly weaponise a Namiran coven against her enemies and yet not be diminished by it. She’d have done well in the Guild or the Brotherhood.

He wiped his eyes and managed a weak smile. “Don’t worry about me, lass, I can cope.”

“You don’t need to pull that macho shit with me,” Laina told him candidly but without rancour.

“Lass, people are counting on me. As the Khajiit say… ‘fake it until you make it’.” He glanced up at the others, already halfway upstairs. “We better not keep the Jarl waiting.”

Balgruuf’s court was second only to Elisif’s in splendour, the Jarl himself clad in silks and gold to rival a Cyrod or Breton noble. Rangy and platinum-blond, his eyes were as shrewd as Tonilia’s as he glanced at each of them in turn. “Dragonborn, we are grateful for your intervention at the western watchtower,” he drawled in that Plains Nord accent. “To that end, I’m granting you permission to purchase property in Whiterun.”

“Generous of you, lad,” Brynjolf answered with a slight bow.

“I’ll even pretend you didn’t have a hand in the ruining of Sabjorn,” Balgruuf continued dryly. “If you’re interested, Honningbrew Meadery is up for sale. Maven made a bid for it but I refused her.”

“Brave lad,” Brynjolf observed. “She’ll have an assassin after you in no time.”

“She may try,” Irileth said dourly as she rejoined them. “Sigdrifa’s tried five times.”

Laina was chewing her lip thoughtfully. “What kind of price are you asking?”

“For the Meadery? Ten thousand septims,” Balgruuf answered.

“Eight thousand, maximum,” she countered. “I know your bounty’s two thousand per dragon and we’ve already taken care of one for you.”

Balgruuf’s gaze came alight. This was a man who truly enjoyed haggling. He was wasted on a Jarl’s throne.

“There are two more dragons that need to be taken care of,” Irileth said amusedly. “One’s just over the border in Hjaalmarch but promises were made.”

“What about Fellglow Keep?” Brynjolf asked Laina softly.

“Those idiots can wait,” she murmured in reply. “There are Word Walls at Skyborn Altar and Bleak Falls Barrow. Words… with the souls to power them.”

“That, I understand, but what’s the interest in property?”

“Whiterun’s nice and central,” Laina pointed out. “Besides, this isn’t so much for us as it is for Etienne and Borgakh. Doesn’t it suit the Guild to have another business partner that doesn’t treat them like dirt?”

“Aye, I suppose so.” Brynjolf knew Etienne had been as marked by his time in Northwatch Keep as he’d been by rotting in Cidhna Mine. Every Thief came to the day when it was time to retire. And having Maven reminded that she wasn’t the Guildmaster could only serve them.

“Besides,” Laina murmured. “There’s a couple bandit groups on the Whiterun plains. Between the loot and the bounties, it’ll barely cost us a septim.”

Brynjolf found it in himself to smile. “Put like _that_ , lass…”

Maybe he could chase this feeling of inadequacy away by killing a few dragons and some bandits. Maybe.


	21. Solving Other People's Problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“Five days and our Hold’s completely purged of dragons, bandits, draugr, necromancers and dangerous animals,” Balgruuf observed in awe as the five adventurers presented the trophies of their kills. “Did I miss anything?”

“Skeletons and vampires,” observed the Dragonborn dryly. “Laina would have dealt with Fellglow Keep regardless, because the folks there had given the College the finger and gone off to do dastardly things. Everyone else was mostly in the way of where we were going, lad.”

Next to the Stallion Throne, Irileth stifled a chuckle. She’d described the motley group of adventurers as ‘a sentient natural disaster for anyone fool enough to irritate them’ and seeing the hardened gazes and scars of veterans, Balgruuf was inclined to agree. The Dragonborn reportedly knew several Shouts without going to High Hrothgar, the sorceress wielded _two_ Daedric artefacts, the Breton bore the signs of torture and his Orc wife wore her armour as easily as silk, and the Orc male carried himself with the confidence of an experienced Legionary. He was rather glad they weren’t with the Legion or the Stormcloaks; Balgruuf would have had to capitulate in short order to save his city and himself.

Proventus cleared his throat after tallying up the bounties they’d collected, the market value of the arms, armour and supplies they’d retrieved, and the good will they’d generated over the past five days. Balgruuf would have offered Brynjolf Thaneship, except Idgrod had beaten him to the punch. So instead he’d let them take Honningbrew Meadery without too much of a fight. “My Jarl, when all’s said and done, I believe they would only have to pay fifteen hundred septims for the meadery,” he announced.

“Oh?” Brynjolf asked, eyebrow rising.

“Administration fees,” Balgruuf said dryly.

“Catch,” Laina said, tossing a hessian sack to Proventus. “Pure gold ore.”

“I’d prefer coin,” Balgruuf told her.

“We’ve already put our coin into supplies for the trip to Winterhold,” the sorceress said mildly. “The gold’s pure. I transmuted it myself.”

Balgruuf muttered a Dunmeri curse under his breath. If he refused the payment, he’d have to fend off yet another proxy of Maven Black-Briar’s. Brynjolf’s smile widened as he realised the Jarl was over a barrel in this.

“Fine,” he agreed. “Only because you’ve saved me considerable money in hiring mercenaries.”

“If that’s what makes you happy, lad, we’ll go with that,” Brynjolf said with a grin.

“You can go back to Riften and tell your Guildmates you robbed me blind,” Balgruuf said wryly.

“Oh, I will,” the Dragonborn promised. “I already have twice.”

Balgruuf chose not to make an issue of that but sent Lydia as an escort to make sure they all left Whiterun. If they were even half-responsible for the chaos in the Reach, he’d prefer them gone, hopefully far, far away.

…

“What the fuck, you fucking idiots?” yelled the mage as blue-white light sheathed her and lightning crackled in one hand as an odd, screaming staff was in the other. “We’re just passing through!”

“Yeah, fuck off. I know a Cyrod when I see one,” snarled Hjornskar Head-Smasher. “You’re the Imperial reinforcements Legate Primus Rikke sent for.”

The handsome auburn-haired man with the hard gaze took a deep breath. “You’ve got five seconds to let us through, lad, before I send you to dine with your beloved Talos.”

“Archers!” roared the chief of Whiterun’s Stormcloaks.

The arrows were swept aside by a wave of the mage’s arm, who retorted with the blistering invective of a Legionary and pointing the screaming staff at Hjornskar. A burst of light enveloped the Stormcloak commander, transforming him into a pile of mouldy old cheese. While the other Stormcloaks were stunned, the auburn-haired man in Guildmaster’s leathers proceeded to breathe frost that knocked several of them down and his Orcish compatriots used their own bows to eliminate the prone or semi-frozen ones. The Breton, wiry and scarred, went among them with an obviously poisoned dagger.

Rikke held up her hand as a couple of her people went for their weapons. “Apologies, Dragonborn,” she told the quintet with a polite nod. “You stumbled across a Legion operation and the Stormcloaks weren’t pleased to see you.”

“Rikke,” growled the male Orc. “I was drill-Quaestor of the Anvil Third’s specialists corps during the Gold Coast pirate raids.”

“Ghorbash! I’d heard you’d gone home to the strongholds.” Rikke shrugged back her white sabre cat-skin cloak and gave him a smile.

“I did. Got bored and decided to kill dragons instead.”

“Legate Primus,” said the mage warily. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to conscript us.”

“Is that why you and the Dragonborn left Solitude so precipitously?” Rikke laughed. “The General might have done so, but he isn’t here, and I’m a daughter of Skyrim. I know what the return of the dragons mean… and intelligence from the Reach tells me you’re no friend to the Stormcloaks. I’ll let you leave.”

There were few enough Nord mages who’d done time in the Legions and given that Ghorbash was with them, Rikke had to assume that the brunette mage was the Anvil Third’s Magus-Praefect, who’d mustered out just before the Legate Primus did her sweep of the Legion’s officer corps to bring Nords north to command the loyalist forces. “Though, truth be told, Praefect – you and Ghorbash would be handy to have around.”

“Let me guess, an old tomb like this has a Word Wall?” the Dragonborn asked Laina.

“Most likely,” she conceded. “Whatever’s here, absolutely none of us want the Stormcloaks to get their hands on it.”

The Dragonborn’s smile was grim. “I can find a few spare hours to piss them off.”

“Stay out here,” Laina told Rikke shortly. “We’re a specialised team and your people will just get in our way.”

“Can we trust them, ma’am?” Hadvar asked pointedly, giving the auburn-haired man a glare. “That one’s a Master in the Guild.”

“I know Guild armour as well as you and given he’s sold me intelligence on the Stormcloaks before because he’s a survivor of the Karthwasten massacre, we can trust him in this,” Rikke assured the Quaestor. “Besides, we know he’ll come out with the Jagged Crown and there’s no way he can outrun all of us.”

But when she turned around to address them, the quintet had already vanished into the gathering dusk.

It was dawn when they returned, Bryn (it’d taken her a few hours to remember his name) throwing the Jagged Crown at her feet. “Have fun, lass. Galmar Stone-Fist was inside and when he saw us coming, he got the Oblivion out of there.”

“Damn,” Rikke said with a sigh. “It would have been a massive blow to the Stormcloaks to kill or apprehend him.”

“Can’t have everything your way, lass,” Bryn said with a shrug as he turned away. “Happy hunting. I’d hate to save the world only for Ulfric to rule Skyrim.”

“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” Rikke promised.

…

“Mother’s taking it well,” Bjarni quipped as the Stormsword’s curses hit a new crescendo. Sigdrifa’s soprano had the unique trait of being nasal and dissonant all at once, which made her tirades no pleasure to hear, even for her son.

“This is no laughing matter,” Calder said grimly. “This is the second time the Dragonborn’s worked against Stormcloak interests. We must consider him our enemy.”

“If enemy he is, enemy we made him,” Egil said soberly as he poured himself some snowberry juice. “I traced him to Honorhall Orphanage. He was one of the dispossessed children of the Markarth Incident. The gods have spoken in their making of him as Dragonborn instead of one of our own.”

“You went to Riften without combusting at all the unrighteous folks there?” Bjarni asked amusedly as Calder’s expression darkened. “I’d have thought you’d stand in the town square and berate them for their sins.”

“Maramal’s got that covered,” Egil countered.

“You know this puts us in a difficult position,” Ralof said with a sigh. “The Dragonborn is our enemy but if we kill him, the world ends.”

Calder shrugged. “So we hold our own until he kills Alduin, then pike his head at the gates as a traitor. It’s not that difficult a position, Ralof.”

Bjarni refrained from asking if Calder was born that stupid or whether he’d been making a special effort as the Stormsword’s huscarl. “By the law, he’d have right of bloodgeld against Mother. What happened in the Reach was wrong, by any Nord’s standards.”

“You hold those heathen witch-men as equal to a true Nord?” Calder asked, aghast.

“Justice should be applied equally,” Egil said sombrely. “Mother and Father should have settled for breaking the power of the Hagravens and Briarhearts instead of serving as the Silver-Bloods’ muscle. All they did was entrench the Forsworn in their heathen ways by showing the Aedra as petty, corrupt bullies.”

There were days (most of them, honestly) where Bjarni wished he’d been born to a lesser family that wasn’t full of fanatics. He’d found that most people truly didn’t give a shit what god was in charge or who ruled so long as they could live and worship in peace. He fought for the Stormcloaks because he was bound to them by blood… and it wasn’t someone’s right to order someone else how to worship, so long as that worship wasn’t hurting anyone.

He sighed as Ulfric’s baritone joined Sigdrifa in a round of cursing. If the Dragonborn got diverted from killing dragons by the civil war, the Stormcloaks were fucked. But how could they keep a man with a rightful grudge out of it?


	22. Outside Commitments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and claustrophobia. Because of what Brynjolf’s been through, his story will diverge from canon significantly.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d died,” Enthir quipped as Laina and Brynjolf entered the Frozen Hearth’s cellar.

“We got side-tracked by the Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn and several other burgeoning crises,” Laina said dryly. “I see the College hasn’t exploded yet.”

“Not for Arniel’s lack of trying,” the Bosmer laughed. “He’s trying to find the dagger used by the Nerevarine to destroy the Heart of Lorkhan.”

“Oh, for Kynareth’s sake, I can’t leave the College for a few weeks without someone trying to blow us all to kingdom come,” Laina said disgustedly. “Well, I have a translation of Gallus’ journal for you. Did you know he was a student of Calcelmo’s?”

“You could have brought the whole codex,” Enthir grumbled as she laid out the rubbings.

“So you could profit from academic dishonesty again? Stick to the black market and stop being a thesis-thief,” Laina chided.

Karliah stifled a laugh. “So, what does Gallus’ journal say?”

“Hmm. This is intriguing, but highly disturbing. It appears that Gallus had suspicions about Mercer Frey's allegiance to the Guild for months. Gallus had begun to uncover what he calls an ‘... unduly lavish lifestyle replete with spending vast amounts of gold on personal pleasures’,” Enthir mused as he went over the journal and cross-referenced the Low Falmer script with that from the rubbings Laina had acquired.

“That matches with a few things we’ve heard,” Brynjolf confirmed, wiping his sweaty forehead. His eyes were too-bright as they darted around the dark cellar.

“Does the journal say where this wealth came from?” Karliah asked urgently.

“Yes. Gallus seems certain that Mercer had been removing funds from the Guild's treasury without anyone's knowledge,” Enthir confirmed.

“How in Oblivion can he do that? It takes two Guildmasters to open the vault!” Brynjolf burst out.

“I suspect the answer has something to do with why Nocturnal’s pissed with the Guild,” Laina said grimly.

Karliah gave her a startled look. “How did you guess?”

“Granma’s a Hagraven and Nocturnal figures prominently in Reacher theology as a patron of witches and thieves,” Laina answered tersely. “Go on, Enthir.”

“Hmm. Yes, here it is. The last few pages seem to describe ‘the failure of the Nightingales’ although it doesn't go into great detail. Gallus also repeatedly mentions his strong belief that Mercer desecrated something known as the Twilight Sepulchre,” Enthir concluded.

“Shadows preserve us, so it’s true,” Karliah gasped in horror.

“I'm not familiar with the Twilight Sepulchre. What is it? What's Mercer Frey done?” Enthir asked quickly.

“I'm sorry Enthir, I can't say. All that matters is we deliver your translation to the Guild immediately. Farewell, Enthir... words can't express...” Karliah laid a hand on the Bosmer’s shoulder, which he clasped in fondness. “I’ll come back and visit when this is over.”

“I need a couple days to report to the Arch-Mage and collect deliveries for the Old Holds,” Laina told the womer. “And we need to stop at Ivarstead on the way.”

“We don’t have the time, Laina,” Karliah answered with a sigh. “I’m appreciative of what you’ve done but-“

“I’m the Dragonborn, lass,” Brynjolf interrupted. “I need to go to High Hrothgar and speak to the Greybeards.”

“Dragonborn? You?” Karliah’s voice was incredulous.

“Aye, lass, me,” Brynjolf confirmed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need some fresh air.”

Laina followed him outside and watched him loosen his gorget, taking in deep gulps of air. “Are you okay?” she asked gently.

“No, lass, I’m not,” he admitted, face clammy with sweat despite the chill. “Since Cidhna, I can’t… small tight spaces…”

She went to him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and leaned into him with a sigh. “I’m sorry I took so long. I should’ve returned sooner.”

“And done what, lass, wind up in jail with me?”

“I…” Laina swallowed. “We would have borne it together.”

With the mighty will of a Dragonborn, Brynjolf wrestled down his fear, pasting on a roguish smile. “Go do your College stuff, lass. I’ll be fine so long as I stay out of the cellar.”

“You’re sure?” she asked quietly.

“Aye. From what I’ve noticed, your friends need adult supervision. Go make sure they haven’t exploded the College yet.”

…

With obvious reluctance, Laina left, and Brynjolf breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the College gates. It was getting harder to put on a brave face every time he went into the closed dark spaces he’d come to loathe. The thought of returning to the Ragged Flagon and the Cistern was enough to make him shudder.

Karliah joined him. “You’re close to her.”

“And what of it, lass?” he asked, more testily than he intended. “If it wasn’t for Laina, I’d be dead by now.”

“I’m not denying it, Brynjolf. But you’ve become distracted. We should have had the translation weeks ago.” Karliah sighed and pushed back her black hair. “The Guild will need a lot of fixing once we have stopped Mercer.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Brynjolf asked pointedly.

“Since you’re already aware, you and someone else from the Guild will need to become Nightingales, the avengers and sentinels of Nocturnal,” Karliah admitted. “We need to hunt Mercer down, retrieve the Skeleton Key, return it to the Twilight Sepulchre and restore Nocturnal’s favour to the Guild.”

“What does becoming a Nightingale entail?” he asked carefully.

“In life, we’re given all the wealth and luck we could ever want. In death, we protect the Twilight Sepulchre and guide Thieves as part of the shadows once we join the shadows at the end of our contract’s fulfilment.” Karliah smiled gently. “That’s why we say ‘shadows guide us’, because Nightingales of the past are helping us in the present.”

“I see, lass,” Brynjolf said noncommittally.

“That’s why I’m suggesting you and Laina stay as friends,” Karliah continued. “A Nightingale needs to be ready to fight and die for the Twilight Sepulchre and someone with outside commitments may find that hard to do.”

“…That’s not something I can do at the moment,” Brynjolf told her candidly. “It’s the end of the world if I don’t defeat Alduin. What’s the point of all the luck and wealth we could ever want if it all goes into the World-Eater’s belly?”

“Gallus intended you to become his successor,” Karliah said. “This is what he would want.”

“I can’t, lass. Not at the moment.” Brynjolf inhaled deeply and breathed out “Feim”, becoming ethereal.

Karliah swore, falling back in fear.

“I was told by an ex-Blade a Dragonborn makes his own luck and as Dragonborn, I’ve already managed to rescue Etienne, overthrow the Silver-Bloods, piss off a couple Daedric Princes and become a Thane,” Brynjolf continued once he could speak again. “The only reason I’m not dripping in coin is because we’ve had to outfit our allies and I bought some property in Whiterun for Etienne and Borgakh. I intend to stop Mercer Frey, lass, but I don’t need to become a Nightingale to do that.”

“But Gallus wanted…”

“Gallus, gods rest his soul, has been dead for twenty-something years,” Brynjolf said wearily. “Nocturnal’s going to have to look elsewhere for a Nightingale. I have prior commitments.”


	23. Legends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. This is what happens when you leave the College without adult supervision for a few weeks; I want to thank the Tales of the Aurelii Discord for being on the plan to ruin Laina’s questline arc. MUAHAHAHAHAHA.

“I hear you’ve been rather busy,” Savos Aren noted as Laina handed over the missing books to Urag.

“Getting involved in prophecies and politics will do that to you,” Laina said wryly. “I see you managed to move that orb to the Hall of the Elements. Was that wise, given the warning we received from the Psijics?”

“The Psijics haven’t deigned to contact us again. What I’m more concerned about is this rumour about Brynjolf being a… what was it… Dragonborn?” Savos folded his arms.

“I can confirm that for fact – and not to be offensive but I’m probably Tamriel’s expert on actual Dragon Shouts without being Ulfric or a Greybeard,” Laina said firmly. “So unless you have information concerning dragonlore, I’d appreciate you keeping your nose out of it.”

The mer chuckled. “I’ve seen several Word Walls in my time but it’s true, I never could translate them. Given that none of our apprentices have expressed an interest in alchemy, I can allow you to wander Skyrim in the Dragonborn’s wake if you so wish.”

“I’d’ve done so anyway, but official sanction makes life easier.” Laina sighed and rubbed her nose. “Has anyone tried to meddle with the… what did Enthir call it?”

“The Eye of Magnus,” Savos said softly. “It was Mirabelle who named it. Tolfdir was aiming for naming it after some spirit called Jhunal.”

“Jhunal is the Nord variant of Julianos,” Laina told him. “Given it was found in Saarthal…”

“Ah! Well, too late. Everyone’s calling it the Eye of Magnus.” Savos sighed. “Ancano and Arniel are fascinated by it. At least their studies are keeping them out of trouble.”

“Arch-Mage, the problem is that Thalmor _are_ trouble and Arniel Gane is obsessed with the disappearance of the Dwemer,” Laina warned. “You should probably keep an eye on them.”

“I’ll leave it to Mirabelle,” Savos said calmly. “Worry about the dragons and leave this to me.”

“Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Laina said as she turned away.

Given more errands to run and taking the opportunity to restock her supplies, including enchanting a new set of robes as hers were worn from battle and travel, Laina was crossing the bridge again as sunset fell over the College. She was worried about Brynjolf and how he was coping with the strain of being the world’s saviour, the ability of Arniel to wreak magical havoc, and Ancano’s interest in the Eye. All she could do is hope she had enough time to focus on the dragons first as the most immediate threat…

“Laina!”

Faralda met her at the front gate, expression grim. “I’m glad I got you before Ancano did,” the short, rounded womer said urgently. “He’s been looking for you since we got word about those dragons.”

“I haven’t run into him and I was just leaving the College for another month or so,” Laina answered softly, looking over her shoulder. “What did he want?”

“He wanted to question you about the Chief Justicar’s murder in Markarth, seeing as you were a protegee of the mer,” Faralda said.

“What’s to say? Madanach killed him when he pulled down Cidhna Mine on the way out,” Laina said with a sigh. Marius had told Brynjolf they’d meet again in Ivarstead.

“Ancano doubts that,” Faralda observed.

“I’d say ‘fuck Ancano’, but you’re a womer of discerning tastes,” Laina said dryly.

Faralda grinned. “Indeed. Besides, I’m half-human, and Ancano’s too good for the likes of me… or so he thinks.”

“Keep an eye on him and Arniel,” Laina advised. “My hands are kind of full with the dragons at the moment.”

“I will,” promised Faralda. “Happy hunting.”

“Thanks.”

…

“Marius Aurelius? _The_ Marius Aurelius?”

“I’m fairly certain there haven’t been any others,” the bulky mer said dryly.

“Looks like you’ve got a fan,” Rustem said amusedly as Esbern practically fawned over the legendary Blade. “I thought you were dead.”

“I was in deep cover,” Marus said softly. “The return of the Dragonborn… Well, I’d rather die as myself if worst comes to worst.”

“All we’d need is Delphine and we could have ourselves a reunion,” Rustem observed dryly. “I’d stay and chat, but I have things to do, people to kill. Hopefully you’ll have some good news in the next week or so.”

“You’re putting a grudge – and a goal of the Thalmor’s – over the dragons?” Marius asked soberly.

“Laina on her own is a natural disaster. Now she’s got the Dragonborn, two Orcs and a Breton who routinely pick their teeth with dragonbones as her allies,” Rustem assured Marius. “You should feel sorry for Alduin. I would, if he wasn’t too big for his britches.”

He tugged on his forelock. “Have fun. The Dragonborn’s a Reacher who hates Sigdrifa, so he’s a man of intelligence and discerning taste.”

…

“Another day, another dragon,” Ghorbash grinned. “I thought these things were dangerous.”

The scattered remains of Sahloknir were now bleached bones on the hilltop in which he’d been buried. Brynjolf licked his lips, tasting fire and blood, as several Stormcloaks came pounding up from Kynesgrove. If they hadn’t seen Alduin hovering above the hill, resurrecting the beast, they’d have gone right past it and never seen or cared.

“Having Wabbajack helps,” Laina told the male Orc. “Aurelia Northstar was a Blade before She was Malacath’s Hunts-Wife and Blades came from a dragon-killing order. So She lends Her strength to the cause.”

“ _And_ she has two Daedric artefacts,” the big sable-haired Storm-Spawn who had to be Bjarni rumbled. “How much wergild would it take you lot to just leave Eastmarch and never come back?”

“Believe me, I’ve no desire to linger, lad,” Brynjolf retorted. “There isn’t enough gold that can pay for what your parents did to mine.”

Much to his surprise, Bjarni nodded in agreement. “I know. There’s a dragon and a Word Wall on the Aalto. Go in peace, please. There’s Stormcloaks who won’t care if the world dies just so long as they can kill a Reachman.”

“Ulfric isn’t worth a chief’s runny shit,” Ghorbash noted, earning a laugh from Borgakh and a wince from Laina. Brynjolf didn’t know why she was so bothered by it when she was capable of obscenity and profanity at new and exciting levels. “You should challenge him for your stronghold.”

“Steady, Ralof,” Bjarni warned softly as the Storm-Hammer went for his weapon. “By Orcish standards… well. When the chief’s no longer able to maintain the stronghold, it’s the son’s duty to replace him by the Code of Malacath. He’s speaking as a stronghold Orc, not as a Nord.”

“We’re leaving,” Laina said quietly. “Pity Alduin flew away. We could have ended it here.”

“Amen to that, lady. Of course, the World-Eater knows you lot could eat him for breakfast and have room for seconds.” Bjarni gestured his soldiers away from the path. “Just go. I don’t want the world to die.”

Brynjolf paused in front of the burly young man, looking him up and down. “You might be the only member of your family worth pissing on if you were ablaze, lad. You should reconsider your choices.”

“A Nord can’t abandon his family,” Bjarni said unhappily.

“Well, lad, I warned you,” Brynjolf said with a shrug before he left. You just couldn’t help some people.

He felt the boy’s thoughtful gaze on him until they were halfway down the hill and heading towards the Aalto volcanic tundra. Maybe he was more sensible than he thought.


	24. The Dragon of the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

The Old Holds were more infested with bandits, necromancers, vampires and other predators than the Imperial Holds, Laina noted as they left another pyre of bandits burning behind them. Three dragons – Bonestrewn Crest, Northwind Summit and Autumnwatch Tower – attacked and Brynjolf fed more souls to the Words he’d picked up along the way. Even she was losing track of the Shouts he knew, though none of them were known in full. Without the time to scry and hunt down every one, they were limited.

On the upside, they were at Ivarstead and while he climbed the Seven Thousand Steps, she could plumb the depths of Geirmund’s Hall for the final piece of Gauldur’s Amulet. “I don’t think the Greybeards would welcome the rest of us,” Laina told Brynjolf with a sigh. “High Hrothgar’s a sacred, secret place.”

“I’m not looking forward to the walk,” Brynjolf complained.

“It needs to be done. They know more about Shouts than I do.” Laina smiled wryly. “I’m sure you’ll learn a couple Words I don’t know of. Maybe even a full Shout.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “I’m not used to going anywhere without you, lass.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“Why don’t we investigate that barrow just outside the village together, then send Bryn up the mountain?” Ghorbash suggested. “It’s old, it’s probably got some of those Dragonish words…”

“Be careful,” warned one of the guards wearing Riften’s purple. “It’s haunted. Some Dunmer ghost haunts the place.”

Brynjolf shrugged. “I eat dragons for breakfast, lad.”

The ghost turned out to be a Dunmer maddened by some concoction that replicated the ethereal effect Brynjolf could do with his Feim Shout. They cleared out what they could and told the innkeeper, a man named Willem, and the Nord swore when he realised they’d all been fooled. Then he gave them the sapphire dragon claw to the place.

Inside was the Word Kaan, which Brynjolf swore glowed, and a king-draugr. Laina couldn’t think of a Shout that would be based around the name of the Storm-Goddess, but she admitted that she didn’t know anything. The Greybeards would know though.

The next morning, Brynjolf went up the mountain after embracing Laina, and so she led their merry band of misfits on a bear hunt to give the pelts to the hetwoman Temba Wide-Arm. Brynjolf didn’t return the next day and so she went to Geirmund’s Hall across the lake. The third and final fragment of the Gauldur Amulet lay within.

Suffice to say, it was moderately unpleasant, and if it wasn’t for Laina’s powerful healing potions they might have all died… which would have been rather inconvenient. But all three were in hand and when she was back up at the College, she’d see what Tolfdir would make of them.

Five days it took before they heard anything from High Hrothgar… and it was the sign of the Greybeards formally acknowledging him as Dragonborn: “Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”

“’Long has the Storm Crown languished with no worthy brow to sit upon. By our breath we bestow it now to you in the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, and in the name of Atmora of old. You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North. Hearken to it’,” she translated for the others.

On the afternoon of the sixth day, Brynjolf returned, and in his gaze was the power of the Stormcrown. Someone else might have knelt in awe but Laina had sworn long ago to never bend the knee to anyone. Not even the man she thought she might love.

The strangeness was slow to pass as they sat together on the double bed in the best room and she wasn’t sure if she liked it. Until now, they’d seemed equals, the force of his Shouts matching the long experience of her spells and greater knowledge. But now…

“I never asked for this,” he said softly at last. “Will I ever have a normal life?”

She couldn’t tell him that because she didn’t know herself.

…

The Greybeards had been downright displeased to learn he’d already been to Ustengrav and learned the Word for Become Ethereal, that he’d gathered so many Words on his own without their guidance, and that he’d admitted to working with a Blades initiate. But, true to their Way of the Voice, they’d taught him and greeted him. Withstanding that irresistible force had shown him that the old Brynjolf, charming conman and clever Thief, was gone. Whatever he was, it wasn’t that.

Laina, for once, looked nervous and unsure. Well, he supposed she knew something of what it meant to be Ysmir, but he wished she’d go back to her old confident self. He needed a touchstone of familiarity in the strangeness that was his life. At least she didn’t flinch away or seek solitude, instead sticking by his side.

It was the morning of the seventh day when Marius and old Esbern entered the pub. “Dragonborn!” the old man exclaimed, falling to his knees. “The Blades – what’s left of us – stand ready.”

Clad in plain black robes and with a hard glint in his eye, old Esbern didn’t seem half as crazy as he had in the Ratways. Marius wore shining steel lamellar with a gold-embroidered blue surcoat. “I apologise for not being here to greet you, but it behoved us to find appropriate equipment,” the mer said ruefully. “It took us a while to find some old caches in the Jeralls.”

“Don’t worry about it, lad,” Brynjolf assured them. “We’re all equals here.”

“It’s good to see you,” Laina said softly to both males.

“I’m told you’re Laina now,” Esbern observed. “You’ve come into your promise as a mage.”

“I had some good training as a child,” Laina told him warmly. “It’s fitting we three be the ones to see the end of prophecy.”

“So, what now?” asked Etienne from his seat in the corner. It was only Willem and Lynly in the pub as everyone else was working.

“First, Riften. I need to clear everything with the Guild. Then, I suppose we go dragon-hunting or something. Alduin’s made himself scarce after Kynesgrove.”

“Sky Haven Temple,” Esbern said calmly. “There lies the secret of Alduin’s weakness, carved into the wall named for him.”

Laina said something pithy and pungent, earning a laugh from Borgakh and Ghorbash. “Why didn’t I remember that when we were already in the bloody Reach?”

“I think you were a little occupied,” Marius said ruefully. “I myself should have recalled it.”

“Rustem informed the Guild as to what was happening with you,” Esbern observed with a sigh. “The man has never known the meaning of discretion.”

“Still, I need to go there, sort things out personally,” Brynjolf informed them. “I owe it to the Guild.”

_And I need to know where I stand,_ he thought glumly. _I’m not sure I’m what I was before._


	25. Expand and Diversify

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, claustrophobia and mentions of criminal acts, war crimes, imprisonment and religious conflict.

“You’re here.”

Karliah emerged from the shadows of the sewer chamber that led to the Ragged Flagon (what kind of name was that for a pub?), clad in the dark grey leathers of a Cyrod Guildsperson. She carried her ebony bow with its bird-in-a-circle symbol (no doubt something related to the Nightingales) and wore a hood that concealed much of her face. “They’ve been arguing for several hours now. Vex entered Riftweald Manor and found out Mercer was planning one last great heist – the Eyes of the Falmer.”

“It’s usually the ears that have value as an alchemical ingredient,” Laina noted dryly. Beside her, Brynjolf had wrapped himself in a hooded cloak, the sheen of sweat on his cheeks. Coming here had to be torture after Cidhna Mine; she missed the sky herself.

With a casual touch, she rested her hand on his shoulder and used a jolt of Alteration magic to dry the sweat, giving him a sympathetic look.

“Gallus told me the Eyes are great diamonds roughly the size of a new-born infant,” Karliah answered, giving her an irritated glance. “If Mercer has those _and_ the Skeleton Key, he will be beyond our justice forever.”

“Let’s get on with it,” Brynjolf grated.

The Ragged Flagon was more inhabited than Laina expected, a blacksmith and alchemist holding court in two alcoves, a mage reading sedately on a platform over the pool of musty water, and several folk of varying races in Guild armour having a rip-roaring argument that seemed to be mostly finding new and inventive ways to insult Mercer Frey.

“Enough!” Brynjolf snapped, the edge of the Thu’um causing the sewer foundations to quake. Instant silence fell at the whip-crack of his words, which echoed in the dark corners, bouncing back and forth like a child’s ball for a full minute. Being declared Stormcrown had left its mark on his voice; underneath the lilting brogue was the rumble of thunder on the horizon.

“By the Nine, you really are the Dragonborn,” breathed a man in innkeeper’s garb.

“Karliah and I have proof of Mercer’s treachery – though I see you finally got around to investigating his disappearance,” Brynjolf continued as he pushed towards the ‘common room’ section of the cistern. “Rustem told you, aye?”

“I received a message from Ri’saad as well,” said a Redguard woman in dust-grey leathers.

Karliah thrust the journal into the hands of an albino Cyrod woman. “One of Gallus’ old contacts translated his journal-“

“-With a lot of help from the College’s Master of Alchemy,” Laina noted in passing.

“-And it confirms he used supernatural means to betray Gallus and steal from the Guild,” Karliah finished with an irritated glance in Laina’s direction. “There is a way to defeat him and regain Nocturnal’s favour, but I need two others to join me as a Nightingale. Brynjolf has already declined the honour.”

“Because I’m the bloody Dragonborn, lass!” Brynjolf snapped. “Esbern tells me I’ve got the literal soul of a dragon and mixing it with Daedric power…”

“…Would be bad,” Laina added grimly. “My family had a Dragonborn in its ranks a few hundred years ago and when some of his descendants got involved with Daedra, it wasn’t pretty.”

The albino read the journal and swore fluently. “Son of a bitch! I’ll gut him myself!”

“We need to catch him first,” Karliah said testily. “There’s only one place he can go – Irkngthand, an ancient Dwemer ruin in Eastmarch. It was the nearest entrance to where the Eyes of the Falmer are located. But Mercer is empowered by the Skeleton Key and _that’s_ why we’ve been cursed.”

“I fuckin’ told you we was cursed!” crowed a shaven-headed Breton victoriously.

“We were, until Brynjolf started turning it around,” agreed a black-haired Nord woman with a seductive contralto.

“A Dragonborn makes his own luck,” Brynjolf said curtly. He was sweating again. “Can we hurry this up? I’m not as fond of tight spaces as I used to be.”

“So you need a couple Nightingales, huh? What does it entail?” the albino demanded of Karliah.

“In life, we have all the wealth and luck we could ever want. In death, we protect and serve Nocturnal’s interests,” the womer answered.

The albino and the black-haired Nord woman glanced at each other and shrugged. “Not like I’m doing anything with my soul,” the former said nonchalantly.

Laina suppressed a shudder at how cheaply some held their souls as the three left.

“We need to decide who’s the next Guildmaster,” the shaven-headed Breton said slowly. “Bryn…”

“Not me, lad.” Brynjolf heaved a heavy sigh, dabbing at his forehead with a rag. “I can’t stand to be down here and I’ve got important things to do away from the Guild. I’ll always lend a hand, but leading’s never been my style.”

“Don’t look at me,” Etienne said hastily. “I’m settling down in Whiterun with my wife to run a meadery.”

“That was you? Maven’ll shriek like a fishwife when she finds out,” the Breton said direly.

“Fuck her. Balgruuf was never going to sell her that meadery and Mercer sold Etienne out to the Thalmor,” Brynjolf said grimly. “I was thinking… do we still have the deed to Goldenglow?”

The Redguard woman began to laugh. “Oh, that’s beautiful! Maven’s been lording it over us for years and now we’re going to control her honey supply.”

“I know you and Vekel have been talking for a bit about settling down,” Brynjolf continued. “I won’t be able to run things here because I’ll be away from Riften a lot and Laina’s got obligations to the College up in Winterhold. In the Cistern, the Guild’s a big fat target. If we expand and diversify…”

He began to talk and the other Thieves, especially the Redguard and the innkeeper, listened intently. It was good to hear Brynjolf speak about a future beyond the chastisement of Mercer and the defeat of Alduin. It gave her hope that the clever rogue was still inside the Dragonborn.


	26. Blindsided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of claustrophobia and criminal acts. Mercer, to be frank, is fucked in this chapter.

“I have to give this Mercer Frey points for sheer guts,” Marius said dryly as they approached Irkngthand. “Stealing from Nocturnal while being empowered by her.”

“If he hadn’t been such a selfish prick, I’d be impressed too,” Vex agreed. “But he betrayed the Guild in the worst kind of way.”

It was unnatural how a big armoured mer like Marius moved as silently and lightly as a footpad in rags, Brynjolf mused. Esbern was almost as stealthy despite his age and Laina had always been light on her feet.

Laina paused at the top of the hill, gathering magicka into her hands, and cast Detect Life. “There’s a lot of bandits outside,” she reported. “Mercer’s brought in some hired help.”

“I’m guessing you just want to kill them all,” Karliah observed acerbically.

“A few less scumbags in the world always improves it,” Laina answered. “Shall we?”

By the time they entered the Dwemer ruin, Brynjolf could only conclude each of those bandits had regretted the life choices that led to them being killed by katana, arrows, frost, fire, lighting or sharp little knives wielded by living shadows. Marius was a threshing machine, wreaking as much havoc with his weapons as the two battlemages did with their spells. He’d probably turn a dragon into chunks faster than even Wabbajack.

Mercer led them a merry chase throughout the entirety of the ruins, taunting them with running commentary on how powerful he was and how weak they were. There were Falmer and their beasties, entire sacks of alchemical ingredients and Dwemer goodies that Laina collected on the way, and enough traps to please Maven Black-Briar’s little black heart. Brynjolf was relieved to emerge from the corridors into a broader cavern… and then Mercer singlehandedly tore down a statue.

Karliah swore. “He’s learned to unlock his potential!”

“Low road or high road?” Brynjolf asked the others.

“High road. I’m not dressed for swimming,” Marius suggested.

It took all their strength and agility to make it to the other side of the cavern before going into more corridors. On the way, Karliah mused that the Dwemer had been a cruel people. Brynjolf had to wonder if cruelty was innate to everyone or whether people were that way through culture or circumstance. Dragons were cruel, but Brynjolf had no desire to set fire to things and rule the world.

Eventually, they cornered Mercer where the statue that held the Eyes of the Falmer. “That’s Auriel!” Marius exclaimed.

“Karliah, I'll deal with you after I rid myself of your irksome companions,” Mercer said after prying out the second Eye. “In the meanwhile-“

“KRII LUN!” Brynjolf roared, the scarlet burst of light leaving his mouth and striking Mercer in the face.

“Well, well, this is a new ability,” Mercer said as he drew his sword. “I need a hand, Brynjolf. Please kill your friends.”

But the spell Brynjolf belatedly remembered as Frenzy fell from him like a dog shaking dirty water from its coat. “The only one dying here is you,” he snarled.

Mercer might have unlocked his potential but he was facing three Nightingales, two battlemages, two Daedric artefacts, a Dragonborn and a Blade with more experience than everyone else put together. “Shadows take me,” he gasped, wrenching out a pipe with his last breath to flood the cavern.

Or it might have worked if Brynjolf hadn’t frozen the water in the pipe with his Ice Form Shout.

Laina’s gaze went distant as an odd hum filled the air. “It’ll be easier to climb over the statue and leave the cavern via that pipe,” she murmured.

“Echolocation? That’s a very rare Alteration spell,” Esbern observed.

“I’m one of the best,” Laina said modestly.

With a combination of her Telekinesis and his Ice Form Shout, they shaped the water into a staircase that was coarse enough to climb without slipping. Brynjolf burst out of the cavern on the other side, gulping in huge mouthfuls of icy fresh air.

It was over. He’d cleared his name and punished the bastard responsible. Once, he’d have felt smugly satisfied and relieved, ready to go back to his old life with nary a step missed. That was before Cidhna, before seeing Skyrim laid out below the highest mountain in the world, before surviving the force of the most ancient tongue in the universe unscathed. Before he’d met a sorceress who looked into darkness without flinching, a Blade that had kept his vows past despair and a king that remained unbowed.

Brynjolf wasn’t the Day Master of the Guild anymore.

He was Ysmir, the Dragon of the North, the Stormcrown. A man with a dragon’s soul and voice. What need did he have of a bargain with a Daedric Prince or a few septims lifted from a pouch or sweet-talked out of some balding churl who’d misplaced his virility?

A snowball smacked him in the face.

“What the hell, lass?” he demanded of Vex, wiping snow from his eyes.

“Just keeping you humble,” the albino laughed.

Brynjolf stared at her and began to laugh. Eventually everyone, even pessimistic Esbern and dour Karliah, joined in.

He wasn’t the Day Master anymore, but he was still part of the Guild, part of the family he’d chosen. He was still human enough to laugh and love and live.

So intent on throwing a snowball back at Vex, he missed the relieved glance Laina and Marius exchanged.

For all his dragon’s soul and voice, he was still a man. And what was all the power in the world compared to a few good friends and a purpose in life.


	27. The Natural State of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Now we’ve completed the Guild arc, it’s time to ramp up the College arc!

“Master Laina! Oh, thank the Nine we found you,” Onmund blurted as the Clairvoyance spell in his hand blinked out. Beside him, Brelyna lowered her hood and J’zargo tightened his cloak around himself, both of them shivering in the wind from the Sea of Ghosts. Even a Paler like himself found the broad frozen ribbon of the White River chilly without the mountains to shelter him.

The Altmer who accompanied Laina and Brynjolf reached for the long handle of the oddly shaped greatsword sheathed across his back, but Laina waved him down. “Onmund,” she said in that clear carrying contralto. “You three look like you’ve been in a fight.”

“You can say that again,” Brelyna said sourly. “Ancano and Arniel did _something_ to the Eye. Savos Aren died in the initial explosion; Jarl Korir, Kai Wet-Pommel and half of Winterhold’s guard died in the ensuing attack of these weird magical anomalies.”

Laina’s response was pithy and profane, revealing her Legionary origins. “Who’s in charge?” she demanded.

“Faralda, for the moment. We managed to evacuate Winterhold to Whistling Mine but…” Onmund spread his hands helplessly. “Jarl Korir’s widow wants the guard to butcher the College faculty, Mirabelle Ervine’s lost both legs and is barely coherent, and the Psijic who popped by for a visit said that we needed you, the Dragonborn and the Staff of Magnus to stop Ancano and Arniel.”

“Fuck,” Brynjolf swore. “We just killed the bastard who framed me with the Guild.”

“Sky Haven Temple will need to wait,” the mer said grimly. “From what you’ve said of this Eye…”

“Ancano’s a devoted Thalmor and Arniel’s just stupid enough to play along with whatever he suggests,” Laina agreed flatly. “Did the Psijic give you any more hints on where to start searching for the Staff of Magnus?”

“Nope,” Onmund said glumly. “He just said that the unprepared one would show the way in the light of the stars-“

Laina’s second curse was even more profane than the first, taking the Three Mothers, Sanguine and several kitchen utensils in vain. “Mzulft,” she said flatly. “Paratus Decimius and his Synodic research team were planning to investigate an ancient Dwemer ruin that held an Ayleid-style Oculory. He got rather shitty with me when I sent him and his goons packing about four months ago when they visited the College because I refused to submit to his ‘authority’.”

“Laina!” exclaimed the old man in black mage robes, his tone utterly scandalised. “Where did you learn such language?”

“Five years in the Anvil Third,” was her terse response. “Get used to it, Esbern. I’m not the little kid you taught her first spells to anymore.”

J’zargo made an expression. “J’zargo remembers Paratus of the Synod well. More useless than a sugar-tooth in a cane field.”

Laina nodded tightly. “As Marius said, Sky Haven Temple can wait. If Ancano isn’t stopped, he’ll render any attempt to stop Alduin moot because the world will already be dead.”

Brynjolf shuddered. “Another ruin, lass?”

“I know you don’t like them after Cidhna but…”

“Aye.” He squared his shoulders. “We might as well get on with it. What about the loot from Irkngthand?”

“Onmund and Brelyna can sell it in Windhelm while we wait in Kynesgrove. Neither of us are popular with the Stormcloaks at the moment,” Laina said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I want you two to buy every ingredient, soul gem and cure in the place.”

“What did you do to piss off the Stormcloaks?” Onmund asked nervously.

“Killed the Silver-Bloods and gave the Jagged Crown to the Legion,” Laina said offhandedly.

She sighed. “We sell everything in Windhelm, hit Mzulft, offload everything in Windhelm again, go to Winterhold and then worry about the dragons. The next few days are going to be hectic for us all.”

Her blue-green gaze glinted as she studied Onmund and the other Apprentices. “You’re going to see a lot of death and violence over the next few days. As of this moment, unless you want to return to Winterhold or go elsewhere, you are soldiers and I am your commander. We are on a wartime footing. Understood?”

Onmund nodded, Brelyna saluted and J’zargo scowled but grunted in agreement.

“Esbern, can you teach them a few more spells? Onmund prefers ice and shock spells, Brelyna’s Conjuration needs work and J’zargo’s already an expert in Destruction but is lacking in Wards.”

The old man nodded. “By your will, Grandmaster.”

“Grandmaster?” Onmund asked.

Esbern smiled. “I and Marius are Blades. Laina is our commander. That makes her the Grandmaster, second only to the Dragonborn.”

“Fuck,” Laina muttered.

…

Mzulft proved to be as fun as Laina expected, Paratus Decimius’ idiocy killing all of his team killed by automatons, Falmer and all the other unpleasantness inherent to a Dwemer ruin. After she’d properly attuned the focusing crystal and gotten the Oculory to work, the outline of Skyrim was picked out in starlight, only two bursts of light corresponding to Winterhold (no surprise there) and somewhere in Hjaalmarch. “You ruined it!” the Synodic Evoker shrieked. “It was supposed to show all the magical artefacts in Skyrim!”

“Why?” Laina asked, hand tightening around Wabbajack.

“Because the Empire needs to control them to protect itself,” Paratus informed her angrily. “As your superior in the Synod-!”

“I was an Evoker just like you,” Laina interrupted flatly. “Now I’m a Master of the College of Winterhold and we don’t recognise your authority. Even if you _were_ my legal superior, after you got your entire research team killed, why in Kynareth’s name should you be allowed to command anything more than the colour of your underwear?”

“Their incompetency isn’t my problem!” Paratus retorted.

“Gavros was a friend, one who died in my arms _because you sent him across a hostile province with no support or guard!_ ” Laina roared in fury. “The world is in danger of ending and you’re sitting in a ruin, surrounded by the corpses of those who trusted you to be a competent leader, claiming that they got themselves killed? _What the fuck is wrong with you_?”

Paratus sneered. “I don’t expect some no-name orphan from Bruma who served in the Empire’s most despised Legion to understand the intricacies of politics and leadership. Go back to grinding herbs and leave the higher magics to those who are better suited to them.”

“Uh, Laina,” called Onmund from the other room. “I think I can see more Falmer. We better get out of here.”

Laina smiled and gestured. Paratus’ face contorted into a rictus of fear as his body stiffened and toppled over, afflicted by a Paralyse spell.

“I’m sure a great mage like you can get yourself free of that before the Falmer that killed your team arrive,” she said sweetly as she turned to leave. “If not… well, I’m a huge believer in poetic justice.”

They heard him scream once just before they left the entrance.

…

They didn’t need to go far to be rid of the loot from Mzulft as there was a hidden Legion camp just in the valley below the ancient Dwemer ruin who bought all the copper and weapons they’d brought out. Laina knew the Legate, one Hrollod, from her days in the Anvil Third and he accepted her report of Paratus falling to the Falmer at face value. The camp medic took care of J’zargo and Onmund’s wounds while Brelyna took advantage of the alchemy table to brew up some more potions from the ingredients they’d collected. She seemed very keen on Invisibility ones, the smart lass.

Brynjolf absently scratched himself as he stared down into the wooded foothills of the Velothi Mountains. They were all potion-drunk, filthy and exhausted but the situation in Winterhold begrudged a good day or so of rest and recuperation. But then again, taking a little time now would save more time in the future.

“We’ll overnight in Keld-Nar,” Laina said from behind him. “Hrollod’s a good man, but I don’t want to put him in an awkward position by having members of a technically illegal order in the camp for longer than we need to.”

“Good idea, lass,” he agreed, inhaling the cool afternoon air. It was getting on winter now and soon even the Nords would need fur cloaks.

They were silent for a while, waiting for the Apprentices to fix themselves up and the two Blades to stop haggling with the quartermaster, until Laina broke it with a sigh. “What I did to Paratus was cruel,” she admitted.

“From what you’ve said, the bastard had it coming,” Brynjolf assured her. “But aye, lass, it was cruel.”

“It’s easy to mistake vengeance for justice… and thereby justifying your behaviour as righteous,” Laina observed. “That’s where my mother and Ulfric went wrong. They were given cruelty, so they assumed cruelty was the natural state of the world. It isn’t.”

“What _is_ the natural state of the world?” he asked.

Her smile was wry. “I was hoping the almighty Dragonborn had the answer, because I most certainly don’t.”

They laughed and for a moment, the world was okay again.


	28. We Both Have Duties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

It was a ragged group, worn down by hard travel even after overnighting in Keld-Nar, that returned to Whistling Mine. Even from here, Laina could see the swirling Wards around the College and the smoking devastation of Winterhold’s thatched wooden buildings. Whatever Ancano and Arniel were doing in there, it needed to be stopped and soon.

“Magical nexus on the border of Hjaalmarch and Whiterun? That can only be Labyrinthian, the former home and study-place of Shalidor himself.” Behind Laina, Faralda’s voice was weary as she answered Brelyna’s question. “It makes sense that the Staff of Magnus would be there.”

“Do we have enough time to get there and back again, lass?” Brynjolf asked soberly.

“We have no choice. Savos died in the initial explosion and Mirabelle was injured trying to breach it,” Faralda told him with a sigh. “Tolfdir and I are the next powerful mages with Laina a very close third. And of us three, she’s the only one with any real combat experience.”

Laina pushed back her greasy hair with a grimace. Gods, she’d love a hot bath. “How are things with Korir’s widow?”

“Dagur snuck a sleeping potion into her mead, but it won’t hold forever,” Faralda said glumly. “We’re fortunate that the surviving guard aren’t keen on executing us… yet.”

“So who’s in charge?”

“No one. Kraldar had been the Imperial pick but he died when the anomalies attacked Winterhold. Malur ran away – not that he was much of a Steward.”

“Okay, okay…” Laina allowed herself a weary sigh. “Bryn-“

“I’m going with you,” he interrupted.

“No, you’re not,” Laina said firmly. “Only Kynareth knows what kind of horrible traps there are in this old ruin and you’re the only non-expendable one of us as the Dragonborn. I’m leaving Esbern and Marius with you.”

Marius nodded in reluctant agreement. “I’m afraid she’s right. Ideally, we’d be going to Sky Haven Temple while she goes to Labyrinthian.”

“Dammit, lass,” Brynjolf cursed.

She gave him a bittersweet smile. “We both have duties, Bryn.”

“You’ll be taking the apprentices?” Faralda asked.

“J’zargo,” Laina decided. “You might need Onmund and Brelyna here if things get worse.”

She tugged at a lock of hair. “Put Dagur in charge for now. We can worry about a new Jarl when this is all over.”

The Altmer nodded. “Before you go, you’d better speak to Mirabelle. She said Savos had left something for you.”

Mirabelle was wrapped in a bearskin blanket, Colette sitting next to her. “Laina! They found you. Thank the gods.”

“We need to go to Labyrinthian and collect the Staff of Magnus,” Lina said, kneeling beside her. “I _warned_ Savos…”

“I know. He said as much before…” Mirabelle pulled out the iron torc Savos had worn from under the blanket. “He said you would need this when you went to Labyrinthian. It’s the handle to the door.”

“He _knew_ we’d need to go?” Laina asked in disbelief.

“He always intended you to go there. Once, it was the capital city of Skyrim in the days of the dragons.” Mirabelle sighed wearily. “He didn’t tell me much, only that there was great danger there.”

“Of course there is,” Laina observed dryly. “Nothing’s ever easy when one of the greatest mages of antiquity built an ominously named lair in which an artefact of dubious provenance that _might_ stop Ancano and Arniel is to be found.”

She took the torc from Mirabelle’s hands. “They will be stopped,” she promised. “One way or another.”

…

Brynjolf, suffice to say, wasn’t pleased that Laina and J’zargo were going to some dangerous tomb without him. The Khajiit was arrogant, cocky and unreliable, much like a young Thief he’d once known. But Laina had been right – he needed to get to Sky Haven Temple.

“Laina’s used to raiding old Nord ruins,” Marius reassured him as they left Winterhold about an hour behind the two mages.

“She _what_?” Esbern yelped.

“She explored every Nord and Ayleid tomb in County Bruma and half of Skyrim before she met Brynjolf,” Marius announced blithely. “It’s not like the draugr care beyond their magical programming.”

“Half the Words I know I got from her,” Brynjolf told the ancient loremaster.

“I should hope so. Wulfgar and Arius taught her Dovahzul practically from birth.” Esbern sighed. “If it hadn’t been for her grandfather’s idiocy, we’d have made her the greatest scholar of dragonlore in Tamriel.”

“She’s already that,” Brynjolf said.

It took them a day to reach the Pale, where they were able to catch the ferry to Solitude, and then go through the western edge of Haafingar into the Reach. There were more travellers on the roads, many of them hill-clan, and while Brynjolf and his companions received wary looks no one attacked. “Holy Mountain?” one shaman asked, his markings showing him to be sworn to Hircine. “A lot of Matriarchs and even some Orcish wisewomen there at the moment. Some great convocation.”

“You’re not going there, lad?” Brynjolf asked politely.

The shaman shook his head. “Just left. They’re saying the Dragonborn’s a-comin’ and some blackcoat mer’s tryin’ to end the world. The Hags need ta hold the world-bones together.”

“I’m guessing Aurelia’s keeping Malacath apprised of the situation,” Marius said soberly.

“Aurelia?” the shaman asked in confusion.

Marius smiled. “The Madgoddess. Don’t let her name fool you – she’s the epitome of berserker madness, but it doesn’t make her stupid or malevolent.”

“Oh, Malacath’s Hunts-Wife.” The shaman scrubbed the back of his neck. “You dressed like them old carvings at Holy Mountain.”

“My great-grandfather was Akaviri. They’re family heirlooms,” Marius said blandly.

“Bryn mac Gillam. My friends are Esbern and Marius,” Brynjolf told the shaman.

“So you’re the Dragonborn. Well, Catriona wants to talk to you.” The shaman smirked. “Probably wantin’ to know what you got up to with her granddaughter.”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells,” Brynjolf said primly.

“Uh huh. If a Matriarch wants answers, even Catriona, you’d best be answerin’ honestly.” The shaman nodded. “Happy hunting.”

“Thanks,” Brynjolf said as he left.

“Well,” Marius said mildly. “I see Sky Haven Temple will be very interesting.”

“Just what I need,” Brynjolf groaned. “A granma asking my intentions.”

Marius laughed. “Catriona’s formidable. I think the next day or so will be entertaining.”

Brynjolf, for the sake of diplomacy, forbore to mention that Marius probably had a twisted sense of humour from his time in the Thalmor as they began to travel again. A conman learned to be tactful, after all.


	29. A Draugr With Parlour Tricks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of criminal acts and war crimes.

“Did he warn you that your own power would be your undoing? That it would only serve to strengthen me?”

“So this is a Dragon Priest,” Laina observed as the lich growled guttural taunts and threats. “I was expecting something a little more impressive.”

“You should be scared, witch,” promised Morokei darkly as he lifted the Staff of Magnus. “Your own strength will be your undoing… and you are strong indeed.”

“Morokei, meet Wabbajack. Wabbajack, meet Morokei.” Laina deflected the lightning strike from the Staff and absorbed the rest, retaliating by throwing a spark from her great-great-grandmother’s gift. A little butterfly, unnatural hues of red and purple vivid against the dark blue-lit glow of the cavern, fluttered and landed on the Dragon Priest’s unnatural mask.

“What is this? A little butterfly?” laughed Morokei.

_Okay, this may not be good…_ Laina called fire to her hand as J’zargo fought off both enthralled mages. If Savos hadn’t already been dead, she’d have killed him for what he did here as an apprentice.

“Come. Face your end,” Morokei taunted.

“It’s not me who’s going to Sovngarde today,” Laina said grimly as she threw a fireball.

It exploded on the Dragon Priest’s ragged robes, earning a disdainful laugh as he retaliated with the Staff of Magnus. Lightning crawled over her skin, deflected and absorbed by her innate understanding of magicka, the rest simply dissipating under her shock resistance-enchanted silver ring. Magically, at least, there wasn’t a lot that Laina couldn’t survive.

In fact, with each attack a desperate Morokei threw at her, she only replenished her magicka instead of having it drained.

Though no one was here to appreciate it, Laina felt a sense of triumph over those Synodic mages who laughed at her for focusing on the less flashy spells and disciplines of Alteration and Restoration. Destruction and Illusion had more tangible effects, blasting and swaying enemies, and so they were preferred by mages who wanted a quick septim but were too arrogant to study more than the basics of alchemy.

But her granma had taught her, as the Imperialised mages did not, that the Schools were only an artificial division imposed by sorcerers who needed to compartmentalise everything. Alteration and Restoration affected the very structure of life itself, transmuting magicka into a manipulation of the world’s building blocks. Laina could banish weariness and wounds, restore her magicka more swiftly, resist and even absorb the greater part of hostile spells. She could harden her skin to the strength of ebony and transmute water into air when underwater. Simpler tricks like rotting wood and rusting iron, turning iron ore into silver and silver into gold, replicating unprocessed grain and purifying poisons from water or her blood. She could even manipulate air to lift objects or open locks or even snap a neck or choke someone’s breath.

Compared to what she could do, Morokei was simply a draugr with some parlour tricks.

Laina called a blue-green glow to her hand and reached out to pluck the moonstone mask from the Dragon Priest’s face, earning a screeching wail that turned into something approaching a scream when she dropped Wabbajack to purge the undead creature with Sun’s Fire. Since carrying Dawnbreaker, her ability to harm undead had increased exponentially – which had come in handy with that necromantically raised dragon.

Morokei turned to ash and blew away on a cold clean wind that came from nowhere.

“J’zargo wants to know how did you do that?” the Khajiit apprentice asked in awe.

Laina smiled as she crossed over to collect the mask and the Staff of Magnus. “Restoration is a perfectly valid School of magic.”

…

It seemed like every Hagraven in the Reach was in the camp at the base of Karthspire and all of them knew Brynjolf was the Dragonborn.

Twenty or so years in the lowlands didn’t shake off the awe he felt at feeling those beady eyes, bright with the power of Hircine and Nocturnal and half a dozen other Daedric Princes, fixed on him. Marius seemed unperturbed by the scrutiny but Esbern looked like he wanted to be elsewhere. Stormcrown he might be, but Brynjolf knew that the power of the Hags was older than time itself, dating to the days when gods walked among men and the earthbones themselves shifted at a whim.

Kaleen, the Matriarch of Holy Mountain Clan, waited for them at the entrance to the Karthspire caves with a Briarheart on her left and another Hagraven, this one tall and spare as only a Nord could be, on her right. Even under the iron-grey hair and the withered features, he could see the high cheekbones and square jaw replicated in the Stormsword and her children, the pale sea-green gaze reminiscent of Sigdrifa’s icy blue-green eyes.

“Catriona!” Marius greeted with evident warmth. “I see the years have treated you well.”

The tall Hagraven laughed ruefully. “When I heard Madanach had killed Ondolemar the Thalmor Justicar, I might have sent him a very rude message telling him off. I should have realised you leapt at the chance to shed your false skin for a true face in this time of turmoil and change.”

“I _am_ roughly an eighth-Tsaesci,” Marius said mildly.

“Matriarchs,” Brynjolf said with a polite nod to the trio.

“Dragonborn,” Kaleen greeted with a slight smile. “We heard shrieking on the winds and thought they were dragons. Then we realised it was the Stormcloaks’ response to discovering their precious Stormcrown was a Reachman.”

“They weren’t pleased,” Brynjolf agreed with a grin.

“We gathered here today to make some decisions,” Catriona said. “And to see what manner of man has a dragon’s soul. I suppose you’re not a total loss.”

“You better get used to me, lass,” Brynjolf informed her. “I’m with your granddaughter Laina.”

“She’s far too young for you!” blurted Catriona.

“Catriona, Laina’s in her early thirties now,” Marius told her gently. “Brynjolf’s not that much older than her. And given her talent for Alteration and Restoration, she’ll outlive him by several decades, even if he should reach a ripe old age.”

“Oh,” the Hagraven said weakly.

Kaleen gave Esbern a jaundiced look. “A Silver-Blood,” she said disgustedly.

“A _Blade_ ,” Esbern retorted. “My parents gave me to Weynon Priory when I was two.”

“I’m not Talos, Matriarch,” Brynjolf assured her. It would have been nice if Esbern mentioned his Silver-Blood ancestry before this, though.

“No, you’re not,” Kaleen agreed. “But come. We need you to access the Akaviri Temple. There are things only a Dragonborn can do and if we fail… the earthbones themselves will break anew.”

“The Eye of Magnus,” he growled. “Laina’s hunting what we need to stop it-“

“I’m sure she knows what she’s doing. But we must reinforce the Holy Mountain.” Kaleen nodded to the cave. “Come. It opens up soon enough.”

Brynjolf gritted his teeth and entered the cave. When this was over, he was never going to enter a cave again.


	30. The Eye of Magnus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“You've come for me, have you? You think I don't know what you're up to? You think I can't destroy you? The power to unmake the world at my fingertips, and you think you can do anything about it?”

The magicka in the Hall of the Elements made the hair of those within to rise from the winds from the spinning Eye of Magnus. Within the Ward, Ancano stood defiantly beside the Eye, Arniel crumpled at his feet with the pallor of the dead. Despite his idiocy, Laina mourned for a colleague who’d died too soon.

Tolfdir screamed in raw rage, the Battle-Cry striking Ancano full in the face, but he was so mad and intoxicated by the power of the Eye that he laughed it off before gathering a familiar green glow in his palm. He swirled the magicka around him twice before slamming his palm to release the spell… Except that Laina stepped into the Ward, absorbed some of its power, and raised her own to deflect it.

“No human has… has…” Ancano stammered, shocked.

“I learned Alteration where other children learned their letters. I was trained by a Hagraven and had access to the textbooks the Thalmor kept for themselves through Ondolemar. I’m a devotee of Kynareth and have made an extensive study of the ancient Nord Clever Craft. You consider yourself lord of the storm? I am a Nord, a child of the sky… _and I am the storm._ ”

Tolfdir’s fireball was deflected. “Spells have no effect!”

“I am beyond your pathetic attempts at magic. You cannot touch me,” Ancano laughed as the Eye began to open.

“The staff! Use it on the Eye!” Faralda said desperately.

Laina swung the Staff of Magnus like a quarterstaff and cut herself a hole in the Ward, replenishing her magicka, before launching blue-green lightnings at the Eye. It spun, the script twisting into unknowable runes and leaving a blue-white afterimage, and then closed up like a hermit crab in a shell. The Staff’s crystal sphere shone with the reflected power of her magicka and Laina was surrounded by a tangible glow that was both Ward and Flesh spell.

“"Enough! Still you persist? Very well. Come then. See what I can do now!” Ancano exclaimed, glowing a sullen scarlet like embers under Masser’s bloody light. He seemed to have missed the Eye closing.

Laina cast Icy Spear at him, the long jagged spike catching the mer in the shoulder as he twisted just enough to avoid being impaled. He snarled and retaliated with lightning that danced across her flesh, leaving fine jagged lines that stung more than anything, and gestured at the Eye again so that it opened.

So went the fight, waxing and waning with the Eye’s opening and closing. Magical anomalies of the type Faralda had described appeared on the second opening, darting like slaughterfish to strike Faralda and Tolfdir, who had their hands full trying to fight them off. Blue-green and scarlet light cast a purple glow across the Hall of the Elements as Laina and Ancano struggled for control of the Eye. Outside, wind and earth screamed under the strain of the world trying to contain that level of power.

When the Eye opened for a third time, Laina leaned on the Staff, panting as Ancano laughed. “I’m doing this to save us all, you idiot!” he told her. “All of us, free from mortal flesh! See, the earthbones tear apart as I speak.”

Laina gathered the last of her strength, the last of the power in the Staff, and threw it at the Eye… and then began to use one of the most dangerous Alteration spells ever: Equilibrium, the deliberate sacrifice of lifeforce for magical energy. She drained her own life until her digits were cold and her vision greyed, drawing on the power of the Eye.

Then she absorbed it, as her granma had taught her years ago, and sent it through her body into the earthbones themselves. As she blacked out, she had the very great pleasure to see Ancano’s expression turn from triumph to horror as Faralda rammed an Icy Spear through his body.

She had one last regret that she wouldn’t see Brynjolf again before the darkness took her.


	31. The Road to Rorikstead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

Brynjolf didn’t remember much of the ritual the Hagravens used to reinforce the earthbones but he awoke, absolutely ravenous, and left the dusty dormitory of Sky Haven Temple in search of food and open sky.

“I used to dream of it. In the dream, I was standing… someplace high up… a tower, or a mountain. It was always just before dawn. The whole world was in darkness. Then came the flash of light – just on the horizon, within the clouds that mark the border between worlds. It could have been lightning, but there was no thunder. In the dream, the sense of foreboding grew, but I could never wake up. Then it came again, this time more distinct. Closer. Definitely not lightning now. It was orange – brilliant orange, the colour of hearth and dawn. And a sound, too. Distinct and indistinct. Not thunder… something else. Something I should recognize, but in the dream I cannot place it. I want to leave my high place, to seek shelter. From what, I don’t yet know. In the manner of dreams, I cannot escape. I’m forced to wait and watch. Then, finally, realization and horror arrive together. The orange is flame, heat. The sound a roar, a challenge in their ancient tongue. But now it’s too late for escape. The dragon is upon me – fire and darkness descending like a thunderbolt. And not just any dragon, but _the_ Dragon – Alduin, the World-Eater, the dragon who devours both the living and the dead. And then I would wake up. And hope that it was just a dream… but know that it was not.”

_Well, that was cheery,_ Brynjolf thought dourly after Esbern finished speaking to Marius.

“We have hope,” Marius said gently to the shorter Nord. “We know a Shout defeated Alduin and when it comes to the Thu’um, the Greybeards know it all.”

“Will they help us?” Esbern asked doubtfully. “You know our stance on Paarthurnax-“

“ _Your_ stance,” Marius corrected. “The dragon’s sat on the Throat of the World for thousands of years, unopposed if he should desire dominion. Suffice to say, I think we can trust him.”  
“I hope you’re right,” Esbern said dubiously. Then he noticed Brynjolf. “Dragonborn, you’re awake!”

“And hungrier than a winter-lean bear,” Brynjolf admitted. “So you’ve deciphered the wall then?”

“It wasn’t difficult,” Esbern said with pardonable pride.

Marius tossed Brynjolf a piece of smoked meat from his beltpouch. “This should hold you over until we get back down to the camp. It’s a long trip back to High Hrothgar.”

“We’re stopping on the way to Winterhold,” Brynjolf said, accepting the meat and chewing on it with a nod of thanks. “Laina’s got a fair knowledge of the Thu’um herself.”

“And one way or another, the situation with Ancano and Arniel will be resolved,” Marius agreed sombrely. “The Hagravens tell us someone reinforced the earthbones at Winterhold much as they did here, and given there’s only one mage trained up there in the Reach style…”

“So Ancano failed.” Brynjolf smiled. “Good. Damn mer always irritated me.”

Now armed and armoured in what the Temple had to offer, Brynjolf examined the studded leather of his new garb. “This looks familiar, lad. What is it?”

“Dragonscale,” Marius, who’d demonstrated a talent for smithery, said with a smile. “Lighter than dragonbone – which the studs are made from, by the way. It’s the strongest leather available, the stories say.”

“I’d love to know how they found enough hide from a dragon when they burn away as they do.”

Marius’ smile turned sardonic. “Only the Dragonborn consumes the power contained in the flesh. When killed by more ordinary souls, the dragon’s hide remains to be peeled from his corpse.”

“If dragons can be resurrected… That means the poor bastards might have been aware for the entire procedure.” Brynjolf shuddered. “We should get going.”

After making their farewells to Matriarch Kaleen in the camp, they set out in the direction of Whiterun. Having Argis as the new Jarl changed the Reach in just a few weeks, guards and hill-clan patrolling the roads, putting up signs to direct people, goat’s heads to guard them, and spriggan hearts to provide light in the darkness. It reminded Brynjolf of his childhood, except there were more Nords – and remarkably very few quarrels.

“You didn’t hear, Dragonborn? Jarl Argis opened up the Silver-Bloods’ treasury and hired healers to tend to the sick,” explained one guard, a fresh-faced, ruddy-blond Nord. “Them Hags take care of their own. Shrine of Talos is now dedicated to the Three Mothers, whoever they are-“

“Kynareth, Mara and Dibella,” Marius interrupted. “Laina told me that many years ago.”

“Oh! I thought they were like the Three Good Daedra of the Dunmer.” The guard shrugged. “Place’s a sight better than Windhelm, I’ll say.”

“You’re from Ulfric’s own city?” Brynjolf asked curiously.

“Yeah. Place’s a shithole if you don’t worship Talos.” The guard laughed. “Besides, General Tullius’s got Jarl Balgruuf on his side and the Legion’s taken Dawnstar, last I heard. Ulfric’s fucked.”

Brynjolf grinned. “Well, lad, that news made my day.”

They crossed over the border at Rorikstead and saw the truth of the guard’s words when they saw Legionaries camped just outside the village. Alduin flew overhead and – just like Kynesgrove – resurrected a dragon from a nearby mound. With Legion efficiency, the soldiers and Balgruuf’s guard applied javelins to the problem with a little assistance from a couple of the Roriksteaders who knew magic, and Brynjolf arrived just in time to absorb its soul.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” remarked the Legion officer in charge of the squad. “Can you teach us that trick? It’ll come in handy.”

“Unless you’re Dragonborn, lad, it’s not possible,” Brynjolf told him.

“That’s Bryn mac Gillam, Legate Tullius,” reported the heavy-shouldered, plain-faced lad in a fine scarlet silk tunic under his steel Legion plate. “The one who helped destroy the Silver-Bloods and deliver the Jagged Crown to Legate Rikke.”

“Is that so? Well, I don’t suppose he could lend more of a hand to the war effort?”

“Lad, there’s about ten or twenty more of those bastards you just killed flying around Skyrim, and unless I’m there that big black bastard’s going to keep on resurrecting them,” Brynjolf told the Legate bluntly. He was young for a Legate, probably about twenty-four or twenty-five compared to the more usual mid to late thirties. “My hands are a bit full at the moment, even if I was inclined to a soldier’s life… which I am not.”

The Legate nodded. “I suppose you’re right. My father told me about Helgen. Hadvar here tells me the black dragon’s Alduin, the World-Eater of Nord mythology.”

“He’s right,” Brynjolf said grimly. “I’m on my way to Winterhold, then to High Hrothgar to learn the Shout to take down that bastard.”

Hadvar stirred. “May I travel with you? Legate Rikke’s planning to take Winterhold to cut off Ulfric’s lines of supply and she’ll need me to coordinate things on the ground. I was just lending a hand to the Legate here to make sure Rorikstead was protected.”

“If you don’t mind travelling with a pair of Blades and an ex-Thief, lad, be my guest,” Brynjolf answered with resignation. “You might find Winterhold won’t offer much resistance though. The Thalmor agent there went insane and killed the Jarl and half the guard.”

“That’s good to know,” Hadvar said cheerfully. “Overnighting in Whiterun?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”


	32. Catching Up With Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, religious conflict, war crimes and imprisonment.

“I see the meadery’s going well, lad.”

“Brynjolf!” Etienne leapt over the counter to give his friend a hug. “How are you? Where’s Laina?”

“I’m fine and she’s sorting out something at the College that’s beyond you and I,” Brynjolf said with that smile which didn’t reach his eyes, the one that suggested he was concealing something. Which, for the conman, wasn’t unusual. At least there was nothing of the concealed dourness that suggested a breakup, so Etienne assumed it was Laina’s absence. Having Borgakh in his life, he could understand.

Etienne nodded and then caught sight of Esbern beside Brynjolf. “Esbern, the Thalmor didn’t…?”

“They tried and ran into Rustem Aurelius,” Esbern answered with a smile. “It’s very good to see you, Etienne, and I’m sorry for what you endured as my friend.”

“Thank you,” Etienne said softly. “Have you met my wife Borgakh?”

The Orc came forward with a smile. “You bring honour to yourself by supporting the Dragonborn, Esbern. He is a great Warchief.”

“No, that’d be Marius, lass,” Brynjolf said, jerking a thumb at the tall, bulky Altmer in armour. “Is Ghorbash around? We’re going to Winterhold to pick Laina up, then up to High Hrothgar to learn the Shout that defeated Alduin in the Dragon War.”

Etienne and Borgakh exchanged glances. “Prying him out of Riverwood might be hard, what with him returning a golden claw to the trader there and falling for the man’s sister after he kicked both her deceitful suitors up the arse.”

“Riverwood’s not that far from here and we’ve already resupplied at Whiterun, so I might swing by and let him know what’s going on,” Brynjolf mused. “We can leave via the river road tomorrow morning.”

“Can you run a couple kegs up to Delphine at the Sleeping Giant?” Etienne asked.

“Aye. I’ll get Esbern to slap a couple Feather spells on them so it’ll be no trouble at all,” Brynjolf agreed. “He taught Laina, you know.”

“Given that Laina’s a walking natural disaster, he did a good job,” Etienne told him with a grin. “Look, take some mead for the road, and when this is over you should come back to visit. I think I’m glad to be out of the Guild, honestly.”

“We got Mercer,” Brynjolf said. “But aye, there’s old Thieves and bold Thieves but no old bold Thieves. Maybe when this is over, I’ll know what I’ll do next. But until then…”

He sighed. “Time to kill some dragons.”

Etienne smiled. “Look at it this way – you’re stealing dragon minions from Alduin. You know what they say…”

“’Once a Thief, always a Thief’,” Brynjolf laughed. “Aye, maybe I am.”

“Alduin’s a dead dragon. He just doesn’t know it yet,” Borgakh said with a laugh of her own. “Tell Laina I said hello. Since I am now a wife, I need to learn some herbcraft so we don’t rely on the local alchemist too much. She’s not as skilled as Sharamph, but I don’t want to give offence.”

“I will,” Brynjolf promised.

…

Delphine hadn’t been pleased to discover the Dragonborn beat her to Ustengrav and taken the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller or even failed to arrive in search of the Word Wall at Bleak Falls Barrow. Finding out he was a Thief, she supposed coincidence – or the gods – led him to loot the Greybeards’ burial place before he even knew what he was and since he seemed to divide his time between Winterhold and the Rift, she had to assume that he’d never had the opportunity to go through Riverwood.

But here he was, a lithe redhead in his late thirties with a roguish glint to his eye, carrying two kegs of mead from Honningbrew Meadery as if they weighed nothing. Strong, handsome _and_ Dragonborn? She could work with that.

“Welcome to the Sleeping Giant, Dragonborn,” she said warmly, smiling coyly. “I didn’t know you ran errands.”

“Etienne’s a friend and I need a word with Ghorbash,” he said, putting the kegs on the bar for Orgnar. “They’ve got a Feather spell on them, lad, so get them downstairs before they become full weight again.”

“Thanks,” Orgnar grunted, taking the kegs and rolling them behind the bar. “Ghorbash’s probably killing bandits at Embershard Mine since they’ve disrupted Lucan’s trade.”

“Thanks, lad.” Brynjolf glanced at Delphine, then paused and took a longer perusal. She smiled at him and he smiled back.

“I’m practically married, lass,” was his comment before turning to the door.

“To little Callaina,” an older, skinnier, more haggard version of Esbern said chirpily. “How have you been, Delphine?”

Her left eye began to twitch and her smile froze as the Dragonborn left. “Fine,” she choked out.

…

Marius was laughing as he joined Brynjolf outside the village inn.

“What’s so funny, lad?” Brynjolf asked confusedly. “Not the first time a village woman’s tried to hit on me.”

“That was Delphine, who was Second Blade back in her day,” Marius said amusedly. “She was the other woman in Rustem and Sigdrifa’s very dysfunctional marriage and you just blithely destroyed her world by informing her you were married to her ex-lover’s daughter.”

“Ugh,” Brynjolf grimaced.

“More ‘ugh’ than you know. We can partly thank Delphine for the ice-cold Stormsword we all know and loathe today.” Marius looked off into the distance. “It’s fitting Esbern and I be the last of the Blades. If you’re the Last Dragonborn, there’s no reason for us to exist beyond Alduin’s defeat, unless it’s to preserve the dragonlore or something.”

Ghorbash was returning to Riverwood as they reached the trader’s shop. “Brynjolf!” greeted the Orc. “Did you clear your name with the Guild and kill that Mercer fellow?”

“Aye to both,” Brynjolf said with a smile. “I hear you’re in love.”

“Etienne has a big mouth,” the Orc said good-naturedly. “Camilla’s almost as practical as an Orc woman and if I marry her, I can go back and visit my brother any time I want because an outside wife isn’t a challenge or insult to the Chief. Where’s Laina?”

Brynjolf sighed. “Killing that prick Ancano. Given the world hasn’t broken apart, I assume she’s succeeded. We discovered that the old Nords used a Shout to defeat Alduin.”

“So back to the Throat of the World, huh?” Ghorbash rubbed his stubbled chin. “I’ll come if you’ll like-“

“Thanks, lad, but I think it’s better I take Laina and my Blades friends because they’ve trained all their lives to kill dragons,” Brynjolf told him. “Alduin isn’t just some overgrown lizard. Old Esbern says he’s the destructive aspect of Akatosh.”

“So… let me get this straight – Akatosh sent part of himself to beat up another part of himself because he doesn’t want the world to end but the elven part says he wants to and lowlanders think all of this makes sense?” Ghorbash asked.

Brynjolf laughed. “It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

“Auri-El isn’t quite like that,” Marius murmured. “He regrets being deceived by Lorkhan and wishes to free all of mortalkind from the endless coil of mortality to rejoin the Aedra in Aetherius. But He won’t break the world. He will wait until all have won free through their own merits and then allow the rest to be destroyed. That’s how the old faith of the Altmer put it, at least. The Thalmor have corrupted it nigh as much as the Stormcloaks have corrupted the scriptures of the Shezzarine.”

“That sounds a bit like Sovngarde, without the dying-in-battle business,” Brynjolf remarked, surprised.

“It’s a similar principle. All of us have the seed of an Aedra – or a Daedra – within ourselves. Or so the Psijics teach.” Marius smiled slightly. “You may very well be the next Shezzarine – not another Talos, but a replacement… and frankly, probably an improvement.”

Brynjolf grunted. He wasn’t like Talos. As for the rest of it, he’d see.

“Ghorbash, can we stay with you and your lass? I don’t think Delphine’s going to be in a hospitable mood after I told her I was married to her ex-lover’s daughter…”

The Orc and Camilla were, in fact, happy to offer hospitality and while Esbern caught up with Delphine in the pub, they slept on the floor of the shop and were relieved to be there. Tomorrow, Winterhold. And then Alduin was about to get his scaly arse handed to him.


	33. Quid Faciendum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of religious conflict. Okay, two chapters is torture enough.

“Arch-Mage? The Legion’s here.”

Laina rose stiffly from her seat at the desk, reaching for the Staff of Magnus to support her. Channelling the entire power of an Aedric artefact through her body had consequences and her physical weakness was the least of it. She hadn’t left the College – left the Arch-Mage’s quarters – since that day and only Faralda’s reports told her what she’d done.

A quick glance at the mirror of flawless crystal with its backing of purest silver revealed a body still too thin though twice the weight she’d been a week ago, crowned with a mane of frost-white hair. The hooded mantle of the Arch-Mage, grey and trimmed with snow-fox fur, shone with a threefold enchantment that Faralda explained was unique to the College and passed down from mage to mage since the days of Atmora and the wonder-smiths of yore. Laina looked venerable enough to wear it, at least.

Faralda held open the door. Mirabelle had resigned from the Master Wizard’s post and the half-Nord womer stepped in because the strain of the battle for the Eye had worn out Tolfdir almost to the point of death. The elderly Alterationist now no longer taught classes, instead passing on his knowledge of the Clever Craft and position as High Priest of Jhunal to young Onmund, who he’d been grooming for the job since meeting the boy in his teens. Brelyna had moved on to become Phinis Gestor’s personal assistant, choosing Conjuration as her focus as Journeymage, and J’zargo divided his time between Faralda and Colette in the equal pursuit of Destruction and Restoration.

Laina had been, while unconscious, chosen as Arch-Mage unanimously by the College faculty once it was clear she would survive the battle. It had been a nearer thing than anyone expected – and only through Colette’s skill as a healer and the advice of Quaranir, the new Psijic representative, did Laina live to tell the tale.

Leaning on the Staff and already ravenous, Laina hobbled downstairs into the Hall of the Elements, which was still scorched and scarred from the intense mage duel. The Eye had vanished and even Quaranir professed ignorance, something she chose not to press. The Psijics were a mysterious lot but they were also enemies of the Thalmor with a vested interest in the College prospering.

“Eat,” Faralda urged, handing her meat and cheese wrapped in sour flatbread. “Onmund’s bringing Legates Rikke and Sevan Telendas across to the College as we made it clear you’re in no state to leave the College.”

Laina wolfed down the meal, chasing it with a bottle of water handed to her by the Master Wizard. “Is this part of your job?” she asked with a wry smile.

“Arch-Mage and Master Wizard are supposed to work hand in hand for the College,” Faralda answered, using Telekinesis to drag a pair of benches into the centre of the Hall and soften them with cushions. “Savos kept secrets and Mirabelle was so focused on the College’s waning external prestige that she dismissed any internal pressures as simply academic rivalry. That’s why we’ve sent her to Whiterun as the new court wizard and brought Farengar – who’s also a noted dragonlore scholar – back to serve as the new Master Alterationist.”

“I’m capable of teaching Alteration and Alchemy classes!” Laina snapped in sudden irritation.

“I know,” Faralda soothed. “And for certain specialist classes, you still can. But does the General of the Legion train raw recruits or do they leave that to the drill-Quaestors whose job it is?”

Laina fell silent as she sat heavily on the cushioned bench. “What about Brynjolf and the dragons?”

“Colette tells me you’re not capable of gallivanting around Skyrim for at least another two months,” Faralda said with a sigh. “As for the Dragonborn…”

“As for the Dragonborn, we’re going to offer him the Jarldom of Winterhold,” finished a square-jawed, broad-shouldered brunette in Legion plate as she strode through the door, accompanied by Onmund and a Dunmer in Legion battlemage armour. “Brynjolf almost singlehandedly brought the Thieves Guild back from the brink of ruin _before_ he was revealed as Dragonborn. I suspect Winterhold will benefit from his considerable leadership skills.”

“And it gives _you_ the appearance of rewarding him with power and prestige while in reality hobbling any ambitions he has by giving him an impoverished, ruined fiefdom,” Laina retorted dryly, not bothering to rise from her seat.

“Pity you’re the Arch-Mage now,” Rikke observed ruefully. “Elisif could use someone with your political acumen as court wizard.”

The Dunmer Legate bowed politely. “Arch-Mage Laina, I’m Sevan Telendas, the Legate Secundus of Winterhold. I’ll be the main Imperial commander around here as my parents lived in the city before its collapse.”

“Sevan!” Faralda observed. “You’ve aged well.”

“The Legion keeps its soldiers fit,” the mer answered with a smile. “I’m glad to see you’re still around, Faralda. I’d’ve hated to see that racist bastard Korir drive you away.”

“Pfft, they tried. A Firebolt to their rumps sent them running,” Faralda said smugly.

“So, is this a social visit, an introduction to the new order in Winterhold or a bit of both?” Laina asked bluntly. “I’d hate to have climbed down all those stairs a week after I rearranged the topography of Winterhold for something as minor as a social call.”

Rikke made a choking sound as Sevan’s crimson eyes widened. “All of that – out there – was you?” he blurted.

“Neither Tolfdir nor I were tapping into the power of the Eye or wielding the Staff of Magnus,” Faralda confirmed mildly. “That being said, it’s not something our Arch-Mage can do regularly – it was only the power of the Eye and the earthbones of this place and her own innate understanding of geomancy that permitted her to join Winterhold, the College and Sky Temple together as one solid mass once more.”

“The earth was broken and I put it together and strengthened the join,” Laina said simply. “Just like healing a broken bone with Alteration and Restoration.”

Rikke was pale as snow. “And I thought the Dragonborn was the one to be wary of.”

“I think,” Sevan said slowly, “You might be the greatest Nord sorcerer since Shalidor. If not his equal. Galerion himself might be impressed by you.”

Laina sighed. “It isn’t about glory or fame or prestige. I did what had to be done. The motto of the Anvil Third: Quid Faciendum.”

_What had to be done._ It was the story of her life after all.


	34. An Ugly Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, imprisonment, war crimes and religious conflict.

“What. The. Fuck.”

It wasn’t the Legionaries patrolling Winterhold’s only street or the scorched ruins of the village’s few wooden buildings that drew the flat shocked statement from Brynjolf’s mouth. That was to be expected after a magical incident and invasion of Legion forces. He’d have been more suspicious if everyone had been skipping happily through the intact buildings of a Stormcloak-loyal Hold. Rikke and Tullius were too good at their jobs for the outcome to be otherwise.

But finding the chasms between Winterhold, the College and the ruins at the back of the College erased or mashed together or just _gone_ was rather… surprising. What the _fuck_ happened here?

The palisade at Whistling Mine had alerted him to changes, manned as they were by Legionaries, and walking along a road previously infested by wildlife but now patrolled by soldiers had been a pleasant change. Whoever was in charge around here were already having the Legionaries quarry stone from Whistling Mine as they expanded it and turn it into a proper Imperial road, clearing away snow and cutting in gridded streets within the palisaded area. Phinis Gestor was overseeing a pair of Frost Atronachs as they used their spiked arms to break apart the frozen earth while a blue-robed lowlander with impressive dark sideburns was mixing some kind of alchemical concoction that oozed ice-blue in its crystal brick-mould, Onmund watching intently.

“Lad!” Brynjolf called out to the Paler, who was a sight more decent than most of his ilk. “What in Oblivion happened here?”

Onmund looked up as the blue-robed mage gave Brynjolf a filthy glare, then a widened gaze as he saw Esbern. “Ancano nearly killed us all,” the young Nord said with a sigh. “Laina got the Staff of Magnus and… Shor’s bones, Bryn, I dunno how she did it.”

“The Staff of Magnus absorbs magicka from active effects, including living things, and grounds it in the earthbones,” the older Nord mage said in a slightly condescending tone. “Laina, as a Master Alterationist and Journeymage Restorationist with extensive training in the practice of ancient Atmorani and Reacher magics that predate Shalidor’s creation of the Schools, bridged the excess magicka through her body as she has enough understanding of both Schools to replenish her magicka _and_ absorb or deflect deleterious spells.”

“What. The. Fuck?” Brynjolf repeated.

“I'm sorry, Dragonborn, do you have trouble with words of more than three syllables?” the mage retorted condescendingly.

“Farengar,” Esbern chided. “Apologise to Brynjolf. Not everyone has your education.”

Grumbling, Farengar offered his hand. Brynjolf took it and shook it, smiling brightly.

“Where you learned magic, lad, I was learning other skills,” he said cheerfully as he turned the mage’s hand over and put all of his magical rings and bracelets in his palm.

Onmund burst out laughing as Farengar goggled in shock.

“There’s never so easy a lad to trick than the one who thinks he’s smarter than you,” Brynjolf told him.

Now Phinis was roaring with laughter and Farengar’s eyes were as wide as a hungry sabre cat’s mouth.

Brynjolf tugged at his forelock in mock salute.

“Laina’s okay,” Onmund continued in between bouts of laughter, “But it’s going to be a while before she can go hunt dragons. If it wasn’t for the Psijic Quaranir and Colette’s skill at healing…”

“Basically, the body can endure only so much, and Laina burnt up all her reserves – physically and magicka – channelling all that power,” Phinis explained, wiping his eyes. “So she’s exhausted and physically weakened, but she’ll recover in time. We made her Arch-Mage. No one else could take the job after what she did.”

“So she rejoined the broken pieces of Winterhold’s earthbones,” Esbern observed.

“That’s what she said,” Onmund said with a shrug. “She knew Hagraven magics and secret Altmer spells. Dunno how but…”

“Laina’s granma’s from the Reach and her mentor was a Blade who snuck Thalmor magic texts to her,” Brynjolf told him.

“Okay.” Onmund’s eyes flashed to Marius, silent in his Blades armour, beside Brynjolf. “By the way, Legate Sevan Telendas wants to speak to you. He wants to make you Jarl of Winterhold.”

“What. The. Fuck?” Brynjolf asked, shocked again.

Sevan Telendas was a hefty Dunmer with close-cropped black hair and a native’s knowledge of pre-Collapse Winterhold if the plans he was discussing with Dagur and Haran were anything to go by. Everyone had been moved into the College until new houses could be built and already, Ranmir had found something better to do with his life than drink as he tended a snowberry bush under Nirya’s surprisingly uncritical gaze. “Do either of you have a problem serving under the Dragonborn?” he was asking them.

The innkeepers shrugged. “Kraldar’s dead and he was the last of the old Winterhold nobility. Brynjolf’s got his head on straight and he’s married to the Arch-Mage. We don’t want the job, Birna’s got her hands full with sorting out our trade affairs, and Ranmir couldn’t cope,” Haran answered. “At least the Dragonborn would let our Hold be taken more seriously at the Moot.”

“Do I get a say in this?” Brynjolf asked plaintively.

“You could refuse and we can bring in an outsider to take the Winter Throne,” Sevan said with a shrug. “None of the candidates from the College really want the job either as it would affect their studies. You’re a competent administrator, charismatic leader and tenacious enough to survive a stab to the gut. Do you really think you can return to your life as Day Master of the Thieves Guild?”

“No,” Brynjolf said glumly.

Sevan nodded to the Hall of the Elements. “Talk to your wife. She understands the political reality of the situation.”

Laina was bone-thin and white-haired from her ordeal, hobbling around on some elaborate staff like an old woman. She wore Savos Aren’s fringed mantle over plain grey robes and fur-lined black boots; it was only the fact her face was still unlined that Brynjolf realised the process of grounding the magic hadn’t aged her. She and the Psijic they’d met in Saarthal were leaning over a table in the Hall of the Elements and drawing arcane patterns on an elaborate map of constellations made from pure blue-white magicka.

“Lass!” Brynjolf burst out.

The Psijic placed his outstretched thumb and forefinger on the star-map, closing them to banish the spell. “We can sort this out later,” he said in a warm if slightly haughty tenor. Then he glanced at Marius and paled significantly.

“Quaranir,” Marius said with a sigh. “I wondered where you went after the events in Firsthold.”

“I was always part of Tamusen, _Ondolemar_ ,” Quaranir said icily. “My grandfather was Rynandor the Bold, the first martyr to the Thalmor’s aggression.”

“Quaranir, meet Marius Aurelius, Eternal Champion of the Empire and Grandmaster of the Blades,” Laina said in a soft hoarse version of her usually deep, husky contralto. “He was in deep cover as Ondolemar, who assassinated my great-grandmother Aria Carvain but died in the doing so.”

“You… I…” Quaranir spluttered.

“I took no pleasure in exiling you and Fasendil, but it was the only way I could save your lives,” Marius said sadly. “Naarifin wanted you dead as the grandsons of Rynandor and…”

“You two can talk it out. I’m tired and need to speak with my husband,” Laina said wearily. “Esbern, welcome back. We need another senior faculty member to replace Arniel. Do you want the job?”

“The Thalmor might come for me,” Esbern said slowly.

“Not bloody likely. Aside from the embassy, I’ve crippled their operations in Skyrim, and there’s enough concentrated power here that the blackcoats are going to tread carefully for the next two or three decades,” Laina said with a grim smile. “You never did get the hang of the Restoration side of the age-staving spells, so you’ll be safe for the rest of your life.”

“I suppose it’s better than the sewers in Riften,” Esbern sighed. “Very well, I’ll stay.”

Laina rose to her feet with some difficulty, leaning on the staff. “Speak to Faralda about a room.”

Brynjolf went to her side and wrapped a supporting arm around her waist. “You look like shit, lass,” he told her candidly.

“I channelled the power of a cosmic artefact on the level of the Heart of Lorkhan or the Numidium,” Laina said dryly. “Some consequences were due.”

He sighed and guided her towards the Arch-Mage’s quarters. “So I’m guessing you’re not going to join me in fighting Alduin?”

“Unless it takes more than a couple months to defeat him, no,” she admitted as he opened the door.

“Damn,” he sighed. “We’ve figured out there’s a Shout that can beat him. The Greybeards could have it.”

“Fuck Alduin,” she said as they entered the Arch-Mage’s quarters.

“No, thanks, lass. I don’t know where he’s been.”

She laughed and they spent the rest of the afternoon cuddling and talking. At the end of it, Brynjolf supposed he had to be the new Jarl. It was an ugly job but someone had to do it.


	35. Council of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, imprisonment, war crimes and religious conflict.

“Arch-Mage, is there a reason you’ve called this meeting, or is it a social occasion?” asked Sevan Telendas dryly as everyone summoned filed into the Hall of the Elements.

Laina steepled her fingers as she leaned back in her fur-swathed seat. Someone had donated a magnificent snowy bearskin and enchanted it with cold resistance and health regenerative effects to speed up her recovery, but no one would say who it was. Not Brynjolf; his idea of a gift was a spellbook or jewellery as he was no hunter and an indifferent mage at best.

“There’s a reason, Legate,” she confirmed when everyone else was seated. “I’ve conferred with Esbern, who’s Tamriel’s expert on Akaviri dragonlore; Farengar Secret-Fire, Skyrim’s greatest scholar on the Dragon War; Tolfdir, our resident specialist in ancient Atmorani lore; and even Onmund, the greatest living practitioner of the Clever Craft, the Nords’ traditional folk magic, and combined it with my own knowledge of dragonlore and pre-Talosite Nord ritual culture. Ritemaster Quaranir of the Psijic Order has lent what little his brethren know of the dragon times to the table as well.”

“No mention of me, lass?” Brynjolf asked with a roguish grin. “I’m just the lad with the dragon’s soul.”

“And about three quarters of what you know concerning dragons comes from me or Esbern,” Laina retorted affectionately.

“True, I suppose.” Brynjolf leaned back in his seat. “So I’m guessing this is a council of war?”

“It’s about damned time we pool our knowledge. If we’d the time, I’d have asked Granma to fly up and share the Reacher dragonlore, but we don’t.” Laina gazed around the table slowly, her eyes meeting those of everyone gathered there. “The first and most critical piece of information is that every Nord who dies bravely with a sword in their hand or by the sword will feed the power of Alduin. It has been his custom to feast on the heroic dead who can’t reach Tsun’s bridge in time. Every Stormcloak and Nord Legionary who dies makes our job that much the harder.”

Onmund and Tolfdir blanched; as followers of the old Nord religion, Sovngarde was heart-home to Kyne’s children, where they became demigods to fight on the field of stars at world’s end. Esbern was Nord enough to be grim and Faralda, whose father had been a Nord, looked vaguely sickened. Even Farengar, who was dismissive of new and old Nord superstition alike as a fervent worshipper of Julianos, was perturbed.

“Then it stands to reason we need to end this civil war as soon as possible,” Sevan finally said after several moments of appalled silence. “Only the Rift and Eastmarch remain under Stormcloak control.”

“Is this the part where you conscript me?” Brynjolf asked the Legate bluntly.

“We’re not that stupid, Dragonborn. Even a public show of allegiance to the Empire would sway many moderate Nords to our side.” Sevan sipped from his cup of mead and licked his lips. “Of course, having lived in the Rift for so long, you would have critical intelligence on the Hold.”

“Maven’s your pick, aye?”

“So Rikke tells me,” Sevan answered.

“The woman’s corrupt and holds nothing sacred,” Brynjolf said candidly. “Laila’s an idiot, but she’s a useful idiot. I’ll drop a few hints to the Guild about leaning on Anuriel, her Steward. Mollify Maven by marrying Ingun to one of Laila’s sons. By the time the Law-Giver dies, old Maven will have one foot in the grave. That’s unless one of her kids poisons her first. They all hate each other.”

“I’ll pass on the suggestion to Rikke. She’d rather cause minimal disruption to established authority in the Hold and I know she’s not overly fond of Maven.” Sevan looked into his half-empty cup. “What I think General Tullius is hoping for is your presence during the siege of Windhelm. Ulfric’s a Tongue and…”

“…And my Voice would counter his,” Brynjolf finished with a grimace. “I’m not a soldier, lad. I’d sooner pay the Brotherhood a generous fee and let them sort it out.”

Sevan winced. “That’s… well…”

“Lad, Sigdrifa cut my ma down in front of me and my cousin.” Brynjolf looked apologetically at Laina. “Ulfric Shouted my da into dust. I was dragged, kicking and screaming, to Honorhall to be raised as a ‘true Nord’. All I learned was that Nord honour was shit.”

Esbern snorted. “There’s at least one Brother who’d do it for free.”

“I’d sooner you hired the Morag Tong,” Sevan said frankly. “The Brotherhood under Astrid tends to be messy.”

“Given Ulfric’s treatment of the Dunmer in the Grey Quarter, I’m a little surprised he hasn’t had writs taken out on him,” Drevis Neloren observed blandly.

“He has. Lots of them. But the current Champion of Boethiah’s an ex-Shieldmaiden and so they cut down any Morag Tong who tries,” Brelyna said soberly. “And since I’ve heard through my Windhelm contacts Astrid was a Shieldmaiden too…”

“Talos had the Blades to do his dirty work. Sigdrifa got herself the Dark Brotherhood and the Boethiah cult,” Laina said grimly. “I suppose that’s one way of walking in Talos’ footsteps.”

“Since we’ve cornered her, she’s likely to deploy more assassins. Fan- _fucking_ -tastic,” Sevan cursed.

Esbern’s expression was sombre. “You may have no choice but to assist the Legion in Eastmarch,” the loremaster said wearily. “The more Nords who die in open battle, the more empowered Alduin will be when you face him for the final reckoning.”

Laina pressed her hand to her mouth as the horrible reality of their situation sunk in. The man she loved would likely have to face the woman who birthed her and the brothers she’d never had the chance to know and kill them to save the world.

“We’ll see,” Brynjolf said tersely. “Let me go to High Hrothgar and learn the Shout that overthrew the bastard first.”

“I hope we can succeed without you,” Sevan said softly.

“Me too, lad, me too.”


	36. Never Another Karthwasten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, war crimes and mentions of religious conflict and imprisonment. Laina’s on the bus for the next few chapters!

Brynjolf didn’t want to leave Laina but it was obvious in her weakened state that she wouldn’t survive the trip to High Hrothgar, let alone the impending battle with Alduin, so he reluctantly parted with her at the College gates. J’zargo accompanied him as the College’s representative instead, having added Restoration spells to his repertoire after seeing what Laina had achieved in Labyrinthian, and Marius had officially been declared the Jarl’s new huscarl as to protect him from Thalmor authority. The mer had been subdued since meeting Quaranir and Brynjolf could tell there was history between them.

They caught a ride to Windhelm from Onmund’s da Ragnar Broken-Tusk, who’d been invited to Winterhold with his clan as a potential Thane. Normally horker hunters and fishermen who lived on the pack-ice of the Sea of Ghosts for months at a time, they made extra cash ferrying folks between the three major ports of Skyrim with no questions asked. Brynjolf paid him generously from the coin he’d accumulated. Money seemed to come to his hand faster than it did as a Thief. Strange, that.

They skirted Windhelm, which sat glowering as it overlooked Morrowind and the Aalto, and camped with some hunters at the volcanic hot springs under the shadow of Bonestrewn Crest. Outside of Ulfric’s city, even the conservative Old Holders were more pleasant to deal with, restricting themselves to wary glances at J’zargo and Marius. Perhaps there was hope for them once Ulfric’s infection had been purged from Skyrim.

They were just getting ready to leave the camp in the morning when a group of Stormcloaks arrived. “Halt!” snapped their leader, an auburn-haired man around Brynjolf’s age in good steel armour.

“What do you want, Calder?” asked the female Orc hunter who led the small group acidly. “Don’t you have someone else to irritate on the Stormsword’s behalf?”

“I’m here to arrest the spies who arrived at the docks yesterday,” announced Calder, who had the honour of being Sigdrifa Stormsword’s huscarl. “The Reacher, the Altmer and the Khajiit. Cooperate or join them in the Bloodworks.”

Calder had five soldiers with him, all of whom had the slack-jawed yokel look of rural Eastmarchers. The four hunters were a motley lot, true, but Marius could kill Calder and his goons in his sleep and J’zargo’s hands were already crackling with lightning. So since Brynjolf had vowed he’d never go to prison again, he took a deep breath and unleashed the full might of Unrelenting Force on the steel-armoured huscarl.

“FUS RO DAH!”

Calder… disintegrated. That was the only way to describe a man being blasted away in a fine red mist under the force of Brynjolf’s Voice. Only his blood-splattered armour and sword remained.

The other five died as quickly, three to J’zargo’s Chain Lightning and two to Marius’ dai-katana, before the hunters had even reached for their weapons.

“Holy shit,” breathed one of the hunters. “You’re the Dragonborn!”

“Aye, lad,” Brynjolf confirmed once he had his speech back. “You might want to loot the corpses, feed them to the bears in the woods, and relocate for a bit. Whiterun’s got good hunting and no Stormcloaks.”

“Will do,” the female Orc said after spitting on what remained of Calder. “I hear the Stormcloaks are done for anyway.”

“The Empire’s working on it, lass.”

But as any Thief knew, a cornered rat fought the hardest and Brynjolf was in Ulfric’s heartland, so he headed for the Rift as fast as possible. As personally satisfying as killing Ulfric and Sigdrifa would be, he remembered Laina’s sick expression when Sevan Telendas brought up the possibility, and he didn’t want to do that to her. Not that she’d mourn them but she was Nord enough to be horrified at kinslaughter.

He was at Darkwater Crossing when he encountered more Stormcloaks apprehending non-Nords as spies. An Argonian male and a Dunmer were being interrogated in the mining village’s camp by some arse in bearskins, their hands bound, while the protesting miners were being threatened by three louts in Eastmarch blue. It reminded him of Karthwasten, where half the dead had been Nords trying to protect their Reacher neighbours.

“This… this reminds me of the purges in Alinor,” Marius said, expression sickened. “I… we…”

“The Thalmor do this in Elseweyr,” J’zargo said grimly.

“Karthwasten,” Brynjolf grated. “Do you lads mind if we do something about it?”

“I was hoping you’d agree,” Marius said with a bleak smile, drawing his dai-katana.

Brynjolf didn’t even need to Shout these four down as Marius and J’zargo cut them down before they even realised they were under attack, so he cut the binds on the Argonian and Dunmer instead.

Annekke Crag-Jumper and her husband insisted they stay overnight for defending Derkeethus and Sondas, the Argonian and Dunmer respectively, and pragmatically buried the four dead Stormcloaks. “It’s gotten worse since the Empire won Whiterun,” Verner said wearily over a meal of vegetable soup and homebrew ale. “Sigdrifa put out orders we was to burn our crops so the Legion would starve when it comes in, but how can we eat when it’s winter? She don’t go hungry.”

“Tactically, a scorched-earth policy makes sense when you’re facing defeat, to deny the enemy resources so that their victory is costly if worst comes to worst,” Marius said sombrely. “But you’re right, Sigdrifa won’t go hungry and if Windhelm falls, she’ll try to escape and leave others holding the bag.”

Verner spat into the fire. “So what do we do?”

That was the question Brynjolf asked himself. If the Stormcloaks were burning crops and butchering non-Nord civilians, they intended to leave nothing but ruins for the Legion to conquer. The tactics which had worked so well in the Reach, tactics the Forsworn themselves had adopted, would be visited upon innocents and the collateral damage would be catastrophic.

The Day Master of the Guild would have shrugged and focused on his own problems. The man stabbed by Mercer Frey in Snow Veil Sanctum would have only cared for personal vengeance. But the Dragonborn didn’t have the luxury of a myopic, self-centred viewpoint. For the first time in his life, Brynjolf had the power to stop another Karthwasten.

The next morning, he cast Clairvoyance to find the nearest Imperial camp. Even if he cleared out a few forts or killed some roving Stormcloak death squads, he could end the war that much the faster and save lives in the process.


	37. Favour for a Favour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, imprisonment and mentions of war crimes, child abuse, torture and religious conflict.

The commander of the Imperial camp located just north of Ivarstead was a tall, broad-shouldered Altmer named Fasendil who turned out to be Quaranir’s brother and to have an impressive right hook that met Marius’ nose with an ugly crunch. The Blade staggered back and wiped the blood trickling from it as J’zargo’s fingers twitched, but Brynjolf waved them both down. “He was a Blade who exiled you to save your life, lad,” he said quickly as Fasendil’s hand went to his gladius. “I’m Bryn mac Gillam, the Dragonborn, J’zargo’s an Evoker from the College, and Marius Aurelius is the Blade who’s going to help me kick Alduin’s arse.”

“Hadvar!” bellowed the Legate. “You say you’ve met the Dragonborn? Is this him?”

The heavy-shouldered, plain-faced man Brynjolf had last seen wearing a Praetor’s tunic arrived, wearing the silver trim of a Tribune on his scarlet tunic. “Yes, sir, that’s him,” he confirmed.

“Fine.” Fasendil wiped his bloody knuckles on a rag. “What do you three want? We’re a little busy here preparing for something.”

Marius wiped his own bloody hand, spitting blood to the side. “This looks like military preparation. You weren’t able to subvert Anuriel as per Brynjolf’s advice to Sevan Telendas then?”

“What advice?” snapped Fasendil.

Brynjolf sighed. “I suggested that blackmailing Anuriel to talk some sense into Laila was a better option than putting Maven Black-Briar on the Mist Throne. You want another set of Silver-Bloods? That’s how you get another set of Silver-Bloods, lad.”

“Bryn was the Day Master of the Thieves’ Guild before he became the Dragonborn,” Hadvar explained quickly. “If any man knows the political situation in Riften, it’s him.”

Fasendil grunted. “Maven’s a piece of work but Laila’s a traitor. We can’t accept her continuing as Jarl.”

Brynjolf rolled his eyes. “Then marry Ingun to Saerlund Law-Giver! Lad’s an Imperial loyalist, it mollifies Maven without giving her power, and avoids disrupting the Hold too much.”

Here he was, trying to lend a hand to stop the Stormcloaks, and he happened to stumble on the village idiots of the Legion.

Finally, the light of understanding dawned in Hadvar’s gaze. “That’s a brilliant idea!” he said.

“Of course it was, lad. I suggested it.”

“I didn’t even know Laila had a loyalist son,” Fasendil observed, chagrined. “Our intelligence from Riften has gotten poorer over the past couple months.”

“Probably because I’m not selling it to Rikke anymore and the Stormcloaks have been persecuting non-Nords as spies,” Brynjolf told him. “The Stormsword’s own huscarl tried to arrest us in Eastmarch and we had to deal with another set of louts trying to execute folk at Darkwater Crossing.”

“That’s why you’re helping us, isn’t it?” Hadvar asked shrewdly. “You’re a survivor of the Karthwasten massacre.”

“Aye.” Brynjolf bit back the reason why he couldn’t fight Ulfric and Sigdrifa personally. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry, relatively speaking, but I can lend the odd hand.”

Fasendil nodded tightly. “I’m guessing you’re off to Ivarstead? Hadvar tells me the mountain is where the Greybeards live.”

“Aye,” Brynjolf confirmed. “I need to learn the Shout that defeated Alduin.”

“I don’t suppose you could use Ondolemar as dragon bait? He broke my brother’s heart and exiled us for being part of the Altmer resistance.” Fasendil folded his beefy arms. “I’d sympathise a little more with the Stormcloaks if they weren’t led by a Thalmor quisling.”

“I saved your lives!” Marius burst out. “Did you really think that the grandsons of Rynandor the Bold would have gotten a fair trial in a court dominated by Naarifin? I threw you two on that ship so you wouldn’t die in an ‘accident’, you idiot!”

“I don’t give a shit about your reasons, you unmitigated prick! You broke Quaranir’s heart!” Fasendil yelled back. “He joined the Psijics because-“

“Dragon!” bellowed one of the camp sentries on the heels of a too-familiar bellow.

“That dragon has _excellent_ timing,” Marius said fervently as he drew his dai-katana.

That dragon’s timing might have stopped Marius from getting beaten up by an overprotective elder brother of an ex-boyfriend but by the time it crashed through the aspen trees, riddled with arrows and smoking holes from J’zargo’s lightning, it was probably regretting all of the life choices that led to this point. Marius decapitated it before anyone else arrived and Brynjolf absorbed a new soul and learned a new Word – TIID… Time.

“Auriel’s balls,” Fasendil said when it was done. “I’m glad you’re on our side, Bryn mac Gillam.”

“I’m from the Reach, lad. Not bloody likely I’d be on Ulfric’s.” Brynjolf raked sweaty hair from his face. “I’d better get to Ivarstead. Think on what I said about Rift.”

“We will,” Hadvar promised softly. “Gods with you, Dragonborn.”

…

“What’d you do to get in here?” asked the rough-voiced Breton who’d just been thrown into Bjarni’s cell. The Bloodworks were crowded with prisoners, most of them Dunmer and Argonians with a sprinkling of other non-Nord races. The only Nords in here were Brunwulf Free-Winter and Bjarni himself – in short, the only Nords in Windhelm who’d tried to be decent human beings to other races.

“Treason,” Bjarni said shortly.

“And your head’s not on a pike?”

“They’re preoccupied with General Tullius at the moment.”

“Cheer up. Tullius is kicking their arses all over Skyrim.” The Breton’s smile flashed whitely in the gloom. “Call me Cynric.”

“Bjarni.” Bjarni leaned back against the damp stone wall.

“Ulfric’s own son?” the Breton asked in disbelief.

“I let the Dragonborn go instead of arresting him. That was treason to my mother.” Bjarni sighed. “Cheer up. I’m sure they’ll treat you to my execution before yours. I’m getting the blood-eagle. You get the headsman.”

“Bold of you to assume we’re staying that long.” Cynric produced a lockpick from a crevice Bjarni really didn’t want to enquire about. “You did Bryn a favour, so I’ll spring you out of here once the distraction’s ready.”

“No,” Bjarni said tightly.

“I’m sorry, you don’t want to be free?”

“Free everyone. I won’t go free while innocents suffer.”

Cynric rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay.”

“Cynric, is that you?” asked a womer in the cell across from them, her voice soft and slumberous.

“Karliah?! What in Nocturnal’s name are you doing here?” the Thief asked.

“Breaking out the Dunmer. They sheltered me when Mercer was hunting me.”

“Well, my oversized Nord friend with the unfortunate relatives, we’re all leaving today.” Cynric popped open the lock with the lockpick, inched open the door, and then scurried across to perform the same service for Karliah’s cell. Then he freed the Argonians and everyone else, including Brunwulf.

Suddenly, there was shouting and a massive explosion that rocked the entire Palace of the Kings. “That’ll be our signal to exit, stage left,” Cynric said cheerfully as the guards in the room next door ran outside. “Loot the place clean. I don’t think Ulfric’s minions will let us leave unopposed.”

But whatever the distraction was, the path they took down to the docks led through the now-empty Grey Quarter, where no guards patrolled. “Dragon!” yelled someone in the distance.

Karliah, who was a small, lithe womer with unusual violet eyes, wore black armour that swallowed the light and wielded an ebony bow. “Who sent you?” she asked Cynric.

“Legion. I was to bust out Brunwulf Free-Winter.”

“I’m betting Bryn made the suggestion. Did you hear they’ve made him Jarl of Winterhold?” Karliah’s bow snapped up and down by the gates, the sole guard died silently.

“Must’ve been a slow week,” Cynric chuckled.

The prisoners streamed out onto the docks, overwhelming the guards, and Bjarni saw a massive flaming boulder arc from the foothills of the Velothi Mountains to crash into the walls of Windhelm. “Rune looks like he’s having fun at least,” Karliah noted

Shahvee and Scouts-Many-Marshes led the Argonians into the water while everyone else took the boats. They crossed the harbour, surprising Torsten Cruel-Sea as he walked back from Hollyfrost Farm; he blinked once and turned on his heel, returning to the farm. They clambered up into the forested foothills, where a small catapult was being manned by two men in Thieves armour. “I think one more will buy us time to get deeper into the mountains,” observed a pale-skinned, black-haired Cyrod.

“In all my life, I never expected to throw boulders at Ulfric’s house,” agreed the other, a Nord, gleefully. “This is the best day of my life.”

“Because you’re easily amused, Vipir,” said Cynric amusedly. “Go on, throw another. We might get lucky and hit Ulfric in the head.”

“I’ll settle for Sigdrifa,” said Suvaris Atheron darkly. “Now what?”

“Get your arses over the border into Morrowind if you’re Dunmer or come on down to Riften with us if you’re not,” advised Cynric as the Cyrod – who had to be Rune – loaded and fired the catapult one more time. “Tullius will have these idiots for dinner, so you should be able to come home in a few months.”

Bjarni, much to his surprise, burst into tears as the reality of everything he’d endured over the past few weeks sunk in. He had no home, for he’d been declared nithing by his own mother, and it wasn’t likely the Legion would forgive him for his actions against them.

Karliah smiled sympathetically as she gave him a quick hug. “It’s okay. The Guild can help you as you helped Brynjolf. Come on, leave your damnfool relatives to their fate.”

Numbly, he followed her down into the Aalto. He really didn’t have much else.


	38. Why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, violence, war crimes and religious conflict.

Arngeir’s expression was even more like frozen vinegar after Brynjolf’s question.

“Where did you learn of that? Who have you been talking to?” he demanded.

“Does it matter?” Brynjolf asked, wondering if bringing J’zargo and Marius would have been a good idea.

“Yes. For matters of such gravity, we need to know where you stand. Or who you stand with,” Arngeir answered grimly.

“It was recorded on Alduin's Wall,” Brynjolf answered carefully.

Arngeir’s gaze, a bright and searing blue, became even hotter in his anger. “The Blades! Of course. They specialize in meddling in matters they barely understand. Their reckless arrogance knows no bounds. They have always sought to turn the Dragonborn from the path of wisdom. Have you learned nothing from us? Would you simply be a tool in the hands of the Blades, to be used for their own purposes?”

“The Blades are helping me. I'm not their puppet,” Brynjolf retorted, trying to keep himself calm. What was it about the Blades that made the stick up Arngeir’s arse shift uncomfortably?

“No, no, of course not. Forgive me, Dragonborn. I have been intemperate with you. But heed my warning - the Blades may say they serve the Dragonborn, but they do not. They never have.” Arngeir sighed gustily. “I cannot teach this Shout to you because I do not know it. It is called ‘Dragonrend,’ but its Words of Power are unknown to us. We do not regret this loss. Dragonrend holds no place within the Way of the Voice.”

“Why the fuck not?” Brynjolf demanded, forgetting himself in his sheer shock and disbelief.

“It was created by those who had lived under the unimaginable cruelty of Alduin's Dragon Cult,” Arngeir explained. “Their whole lives were consumed with hatred for dragons, and they poured all their anger and hatred into this Shout. When you learn a Shout, you take it into your very being. In a sense, you become the Shout. In order to learn and use this Shout, you will be taking this evil into yourself.”

“Lad, I was a Thief. I don’t give a rat’s…” Brynjolf swallowed the curse and moderated his tone. “We need this Shout. I’ve been angry all my life. I never acted on it more than was appropriate. Don’t you want to defeat Alduin?”

“What I want is irrelevant. This Shout was used once before was it not? And here we are again. Have you considered that Alduin was not meant to be defeated? Those who overthrew him in ancient times only postponed the day of reckoning, they did not stop it. If the world is meant to end, so be it. Let it end and be reborn.”

If it hadn’t been for Einarth speaking at that time, Brynjolf might just have leapt for Arngeir’s throat at the old man’s intransigence.

“Arngeir, Rok los Dovahkiin, Strundu'ul. Rok fen tinvaak Paarthurnax,” rumbled the bald elder, making the very stones of High Hrothgar tremble at the power in his Voice.

“Dragonborn... wait. Forgive me. I was... intemperate. I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgement. Master Einarth reminded me of my duty. The decision whether or not to help you is not mine to make.” Arngeir didn’t sound too sorry though. “Only Paarthurnax, the master of our order, can answer that question, if he so chooses.”

“Paarthurnax? That’s a dragon’s name,” Brynjolf breathed, remembering Laina and Esbern’s drilling on the known burial places of the dragons.

“He is our leader. He surpasses us all in his mastery of the Way of the Voice.” Arngeir’s eyes were hot as burning copper. “You weren't ready. You still aren't ready. But thanks to the Blades, you now have questions that only Paarthurnax can answer.”

“Lad, there’s two of them left – Marius and Esbern. Laina never took vows, though she’s kept them better than her father or Delphine,” Brynjolf said exasperatedly. “Pull your head from your arse for about five minutes and understand they’re done for! You won, they lost!”

“No one won,” Arngeir said soberly, his eyes flickering at the mention of the two Blades. “Follow me. I will show you how to open the path to Paarthurnax.”

Outside, Brynjolf learned the second Shout from the Greybeards, one that calmed the skies. Then he had the joy of traipsing up to the true peak of the mountain, where a grey dragon, battered and ancient, waited atop a blank Word Wall.

“Drem Yol Lok. Greetings, wunduniik. I am Paarthurnax. Who are you? What brings you to my strunmah... my mountain?” growled the old beast.

“Drem Yol Lok, lad,” Brynjolf said wearily, trying to match the dragon’s cadence of speech. It was one way to gain a mark’s trust, by subtly matching them until they responded positively. “Bryn mac Gillam. I think you already know who I am.”

“Yes. Vahzah. You speak true, Dovahkiin. Forgive me. It has been long since I held tinvaak with a stranger. I gave in to the temptation to prolong our speech,” Paarthurnax answered with a gusty sigh.

“Why live alone on a mountain if you love conversation?” Brynjolf asked curiously.

“Evenaar bahlok. There are many hungers it is better to deny than to feed. Dreh ni nahkip. Discipline against the lesser aids in qahnaar... denial of the greater,” was the reply.

“So, by not talking to people, you don’t go chow down on a few goats or something?”

“Drem. Patience. There are formalities which must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the dov.” Paarthurnax inhaled deeply. “By long tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my Thu'um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin! Yol...Toor...Shul! A gift, Dovahkiin. Yol. Understand Fire as the dov do!”

He blasted the area before Brynjolf with fire, scorching Dovahzul left in the flame’s wake, and in that Word the dragon soul lurking under the man’s skin rejoiced in that heat.

“Now, show me what you can do. Greet me not as mortal, but as dovah!”

“YOL!’ Brynjolf roared, his Thu’um melting the snow around him.

“Aaah... yes! Sossedov los mul. The Dragonblood runs strong in you. It is long since I had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind,” Paarthurnax crowed in triumph.

“Probably a good thing I didn’t bring the Blades along,” Brynjolf observed wryly. “It could have gotten awkward very fast.”

Paarthurnax snickered. “Mah-Rii-Aaz would have been no danger and Aaz-Beyn would have been too wise to provoke a fight. But Kah-Lah-Nah might have called the storm on me had she been here!”

“Aye, lad, she’s got a temper.” Brynjolf sighed. “I promise, I won’t kill you or let you be killed.”

“The Blades are wise not to trust me. Onikaan ni ov. I would not trust another dovah,” Paarthurnax admitted candidly.

“Lad, if you’ve been living up here for a few thousand years and resisted the urge to eat Skyrim out of house and home, I think you’re good,” Brynjolf assured him.

“Dov wahlaan fah rel. We were made to dominate. The will to power is in our blood. You feel it in yourself, do you not? I can be trusted. I know this. But they do not. Onikaan ni ov dovah. It is always wise to mistrust a dovah. I have overcome my nature only through meditation and long study of the Way of the Voice. No day goes by where I am not tempted to return to my inborn nature. Zin krif horvut se suleyk. What is better - to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?”

“Just because you’re born an arsehole doesn’t mean you have to be one, I suppose,” Brynjolf agreed. “So, you’ll teach me Dragonrend?”

“Alduin komeyt tiid. What else would you seek? Alduin and Dovahkiin return together. But I do not know the Thu'um you seek. Krosis. It cannot be known to me. Your kind - joorre - mortals - created it as a weapon against the dov… the dragons. Our hadrimme, our minds cannot even… comprehend its concepts.” Paarthurnax sighed gustily.

“The Greybeards were pretty keen on not teaching me,” Brynjolf observed.

“Hmm. Yes. They are very protective of me,” the dragon agreed. “First, I have a question for you. Why do you want to learn this Thu'um?”

“Because I need to defeat Alduin,” Brynjolf pointed out.

“Yes. Alduin... Zeymah. The elder brother. Gifted, grasping and troublesome, as is so often the case with firstborn. But why? Why must you stop Alduin?” Paarthurnax’s gaze was keenly curious.

“I’d rather the world didn’t end?” Brynjolf ventured.

“Pruzah. As good a reason as any. There are many who feel as you do, although not all. Some would say that all things must end, so that the next can come to pass. Perhaps this world is simply the Egg of the next kalpa? Lein vokiin? Would you stop the next world from being born?”

“You’ve been drinking with Arngeir,” Brynjolf groused, earning a gusty laugh from the dragon. “I suppose it’s because of that bloody prophecy that says only the Dragonborn can stop him.”

“True... But qostiid - prophecy - tells what may be, not what should be. Qostiid sahlo aak. Just because you can do a thing, does not always mean you should. Do you have no better reason for acting than destiny? Are you nothing more than a plaything of dez... of fate?” Paarthurnax was as maddening as any College lecturer in their academic moods and a good deal less entertaining than Laina when he asked questions.

“I don't believe in destiny. But I will stop Alduin,” Brynjolf countered. “I was told a Dragonborn makes his own luck.”

“And so, perhaps, your destiny will be fulfilled. Who can say? Dez motmahus. Even to the dov, who ride the currents of Time, destiny is elusive. Alduin believes that he will prevail, with good reason. Rok mul. And he is no fool. Ni mey, rinik gut nol. Far from it. He began as the wisest and most far-seeing of us all.” Paarthurnax landed on the snowy plateau and Brynjolf stepped back very warily.

“Even we who ride the currents of Time cannot see past Time's end... Wuldsetiid los tahrodiis. Those who try to hasten the end, may delay it. Those who work to delay the end, may bring it closer.” Paarthurnax’s tone turned meditative. “But you have indulged my weakness for speech long enough. Krosis. Now I will answer your question. Do you know why I live here, at the peak of the Monahven – what you name Throat of the World?”

“Laina told me it was where the Three Tongues handed Alduin’s arse to him at the end of the Dragon War,” Brynjolf answered.

“This is the most sacred mountain in Skyrim. Zok revak strunmah. The great mountain of the world. Here the ancient Tongues, the first mortal masters of the Voice, Brought Alduin to battle and defeated him,” confirmed the dragon.

“Using Dragonrend?” Brynjolf asked eagerly.

“Yes and no. Viik nuz ni kron. Alduin was not truly defeated, either. If he was, you would not be here today, seeking to... defeat him. The Nords of those days used the Dragonrend Shout to cripple Alduin. But this was not enough. Ok mulaag unslaad. It was the Kel – the Elder Scroll. They used it to... cast him adrift on the currents of Time.”

“I’m guessing you don’t have one stashed away up here,” Brynjolf said dubiously. “Are you saying the ancient Nords sent Alduin forward in time?”

“Not intentionally. Some hoped he would be gone forever, forever lost. Meyye. I knew better. Tiid bo amativ. Time flows ever onward. One day he would surface. Which is why I have lived here. For thousands of mortal years I have waited. I knew where he would emerge but not when.” Paarthurnax nodded deliberately at a distortion of air near the centre of the plateau.

“Okay…” Brynjolf said slowly. He wished Laina was here. She probably would know where the Elder Scroll was, if not have it stashed somewhere in the College, and she’d get all of what Paarthurnax was talking about.

“Tiid krent. Time was... shattered here because of what the ancient Nords did to Alduin. If you brought that Kel, that Elder Scroll back here... to the Tiid-Ahraan, the Time-Wound... With the Elder Scroll that was used to break Time, you may be able to... cast yourself back. To the other end of the break. You could learn Dragonrend from those who created it.”

Brynjolf swallowed a groan. “So I need to trudge back to Winterhold, see if they know where the bloody thing is and come back? The last Elder Scroll to be used by a mortal was by the Grey Fox and while I consider myself a damned good Thief, I’m not the literal incarnation of Nocturnal’s bloody shadows!”

“Trust your instincts, Dovahkiin. Your blood will show you the way.” Was Paarthurnax smirking? The damned dragon was smirking.

“What do I do with the Elder Scroll when I find it?” Hopefully the dragon had a clue, because Brynjolf didn’t.

“Return it here, to the Tiid-Ahraan. Then... Kelle vomindok. Nothing is certain with such things... But I believe the Scroll's bond with Tiid-Ahraan will allow you a... a seeing, a vision of the moment of its creation. Then you will feel - know - Dragonrend, in the power of its first expression. You will see them... wuth fadonne... my friends - Hakon, Gormlaith, Felldir.” Paarthurnax sighed mournfully. “The first mortals that I taught the Thu'um - the first Tongues. The leaders of the rebellion against Alduin. They were mighty, in their day. Even to attempt to defeat Alduin... sahrot hunne. The Nords have had many heroes since, but none greater.”

“Don’t worry, lad,” Brynjolf promised. “I won’t let their efforts go to vain.”

“Su'um ahrk morah,” Paarthurnax said by way of farewell.

Brynjolf turned for the path down to High Hrothgar. Where the hell was he going to find an Elder bloody Scroll in the middle of a civil war?

Looked like he’d be needing to lend more of a hand than planned. Alduin couldn’t be allowed to gain more power than he already had.


	39. Let It Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, criminal acts, emotional trauma, claustrophobia and mentions of imprisonment, religious conflict and war crimes.

“Hey Bryn! Glad you could pay a visit. We got some presents for you.”

Brynjolf smiled at Tonilia as the fence came around the table. “I thought you and Vekel had moved into Goldenglow?”

“Look, I appreciate the retirement gift, but raising bees is tedious work so I let him putter around the hives while I sell things.” The Redguard matched his smile. “Karliah, Vex and Sapphire have been finding every Word Wall they can and making rubbings from them. We can’t provide dragon souls but we can give you the Words to kick Alduin’s arse.”

“I’d hug you, lass, but Vekel would take it poorly,” Brynjolf answered with a grin. “Are any of the Nightingales around? I have a job that needs to be hands-off on my end.”

“Vex! Get your arse out here!” Tonilia bellowed in the Cistern’s direction.

Brynjolf focused on the presence of his friends to drive away the close darkness of the Ratways, but gods, it was hard. It was this, more than anything, that reminded him that he and the Guild had diverged.

Vex, clad in the midnight-made-real armour of the Nightingales, emerged from the Cistern. She took one look at Brynjolf and said, “Want to go chat outside? Shrine of Talos is abandoned at this time of night.”

“Thank you, Vex,” Brynjolf said in blatant relief.

The shrine was, as Vex said, abandoned but for the shining forms of luna moths and glowbugs. Brynjolf inhaled flower-scented air brisk with winter’s chill and exhaled in relief, the force of his breath shaking the branches of the aspens that surrounded the weathered statue of the Thief-God.

“You really _have_ changed,” Vex said regretfully.

“Becoming Stormcrown…” Brynjolf allowed himself a sigh. “What I was, Vex, isn’t who I am… but I’m not about to start conquering things like Talos. But when you stand at the top of the world and see Skyrim below you, it puts things in perspective. Little things make up big things and big things make up the world.”

“You looked awfully smug and arrogant when you walked out of Bronze Water Cave,” Vex agreed. “That’s why I threw the snowball in your face. It was an ugly job, but someone had to keep you humble.”

Brynjolf laughed. “Aye, it was seeing how _small_ Mercer was in his ambitions and nature that really rammed it home. I make more wealth killing some bandits and a few dragons these days than I ever did picking pockets, even when the Guild’s luck started to turn.”

“Things are better these days,” Vex said complacently. “We control every city in Skyrim but Windhelm… and we were able to perform a blatant jailbreak in Windhelm and get every prisoner out of the Bloodworks.”

“When was this?” Brynjolf asked. “Sigdrifa’s huscarl and his buddies tried to arrest me, Marius and a Khajiit from the College as spies about a week ago.”

“Four days ago,” Vex said cheerfully. “Rikke hired us to spring Brunwulf Free-Winter, the Imperial pick for Jarl, from prison and Karliah decided to sneak in of her own accord to free the imprisoned Dunmer because they’d sheltered her from Mercer. Rune and Vipir ‘borrowed’ an Imperial portable catapult and threw flaming boulders to simulate a dragon attack while everyone escaped through the Sea-Gate.”

“They were the lucky ones,” Brynjolf said tightly. “Stormcloaks have been butchering non-Nord civilians in the hinterlands. I stopped them at Darkwater Crossing.”

“Shit,” Vex swore.

“Aye, lass.” Brynjolf inhaled deeply. “That’s why I’m of a mind to lend a hand. First, we need to lean on Anuriel…”

…

“You’re awake.”

The Redguard was stocky for his kind, a round face and raptor’s nose speaking of Cyrod blood, with deft hands that bore the scars of torture and knife-fighting. He lay the poultice gently on Egil’s torso and bandaged it with gentle fingers. “That is good. It was touch and go for a while.”

Egil managed to raise himself up a little by resting on his elbows. “My squad?”

“Dead,” the Redguard observed dispassionately. “It was quite a good ambush. The archers took out your sentries and the horses before you even realised they were there. When the Legionaries jumped you, there was no hope for a Stormcloak victory.”

“I should have died with them,” Egil croaked in despair.

“No. You were the only man with a weapon in his hand. The others died before they even knew they were being attacked.” The Redguard sighed and handed Egil a flagon of water. “Every Nord who dies bravely goes to Sovngarde and you would have fed Alduin World-Eater himself. If you want to die, I’ll poison you now and you can be reborn or whatever happens to Nords who don’t go to Sovngarde.”

Egil drank some water and lay back, trying not to sniffle. Leif the Lonely and all the others had trusted him to keep them alive… and he had failed because he thought the Rift was still friendly.

“So now what? You’re going to turn me over to the Imperials, I suppose,” he said bitterly.

“Boy, you do me a grave disservice,” the Redguard said testily.

“You just offered to kill me!”

“You were self-flagellating and while I know that’s a Vigilant trait, we of Arkay are far more practical,” the Redguard said dryly. “So I made the offer to shock some sense into you.”

“He’s right,” growled a deep baritone from the doorway. “For Irkand, that’s tactful.”

Isran of the Dawnguard walked into the room Egil now realised was an infirmary. “You’re too good to be wasted in a lost cause,” the burly ex-Vigilant said. “I was a little surprised to have Irkand anticipate me though. He’s an Imperial loyalist.”

“I lost a niece because of Sigdrifa’s plots,” Irkand said bitterly. “I had the opportunity to save someone else and I took it.”

“Ah. I should have realised.” Isran sat down on the other side of the bed. “The Dragonborn’s gotten involved now, so the end is near for the Stormcloaks. Did you know he’s a survivor of the Karthwasten massacre?”

“I need to warn Bjarni!” Egil said, sitting up again. “I need-“

“Your mother threw Bjarni into the Bloodworks because he allowed the Dragonborn to leave without trying to arrest or subdue him,” Isran interrupted. “It was a very good thing that he managed to escape in the Guild jailbreak. She planned to blood-eagle him for treason.”

Irkand got a basin under Egil’s chin just in time for him to vomit in horror.

“Arkay’s mercy, that woman…” The round-faced Redguard’s voice was stricken with horror and rage and grief. “If I thought I had a hope in Oblivion of killing her, I would!”

“She’s been expecting you and your brother for a long time,” Isran pointed out as Egil continued to retch.

“I know.” Irkand’s expression was bleak. “For Callaina’s sake…”

“Let Stendarr handle it. As I said, the Dragonborn’s involved.” Isran rose to his feet. “Your brother’s in Riften, Egil. Before you go and do something stupid, remember why you and your troop were out of Windhelm. There’s something wicked brewing among the vampires and we’re going to need all hands on deck to stop it.”

The former paladin left, ignoring Egil’s tears.

“Isran’s as tactful as a warhammer to the face,” Irkand said gently as he produced a clean rag. “But he’s right. There’s something stirring and I don’t like the look of it.”

Egil wept into the reeking bowl of vomit, too miserable to care about vampires or whatever.

What he didn’t expect was for the Redguard to gather him up and let him cry into his shoulder.

“In another life, you would have been my nephew,” the man said gently. “Your mother isn’t worth the contents of a Khajiit’s litterbox. Let it out, lad, let it out…”

And Egil wept into the night for the loss of everything.


	40. Other Things on Their Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and war crimes. ‘Compelling Tribute’ over with; now we have ‘Battle for Fort Greenwall’.

“Where in Oblivion have you been?” Hadvar demanded of Brynjolf as he strolled up to the copse in which the Legionaries lurked.

“Just delivered a couple barrels of Black-Briar Mead to the lads at Fort Greenwall,” Brynjolf said casually. “Give them a couple hours and they’ll be puking their guts up or dead.”

Hadvar shuddered. “Most of them are misguided, not evil. They didn’t deserve that.”

“Well, I’d rather not stuff Alduin’s belly full of dead heroes,” Brynjolf said with a shrug. “If you’ve got a better idea, lad, I’d like to hear it.”

Hadvar didn’t, of course. But as a Nord, allowing the dishonourable death of other Nords sickened him.

It was as Brynjolf predicted, the Stormcloak defenders of Fort Greenwall too sick or dead to present a challenge to the Legionaries, and soon the flag of the Empire flew overhead. Hadvar gave orders for a squad to secure Shor’s Stone and another two to guard the roads. Until Jarl Laila was secured, the battle for the Rift wasn’t over.

Two days later, they marched into Riften to the resounding cheers of more Argonians and Dunmer than Hadvar expected. “Ah, they got here,” Brynjolf said cryptically.

Jarl Laila, to give her credit, didn’t try to flee or bluster when Hadvar, Brynjolf and Legate Fasendil entered Mistveil Keep. “Anuriel warned me and I didn’t listen,” she said with a weary sigh. “Do your worst, Imperials. I’m unafraid to go to Sovngarde.”

“I’m afraid it’s not Sovngarde, lass,” Brynjolf said quietly. “Alduin’s eating the souls of the heroic dead. I can’t let him get more powerful than he is.”

Laila blanched. “You’re… the… Dragonborn.”

“I am.” Brynjolf clasped his hands together. “It’s exile for you. The Empire’s given me Winterhold to rule and we’re going to need experienced leaders up there. If you cede the Mist Throne to Saerlund, I’ll make you a member of my court. It’s bleak up there but…”

Laila inhaled shudderingly. “I’ll do it. Thief you may and I’ve heard good things about your ability to lead, but you have no experience with rulership. Better this than a dishonourable death.”

Hadvar glanced at Fasendil, who was nodding in approval. So this had been decided beforehand.

The Dragonborn’s retinue arrived the day after, having scoured the Hold for Word Walls, and the Altmer who called himself Marius dropped the head of a dragon at Brynjolf’s feet. Once it was a bleached skull, the Dragonborn arched his eyebrows at him in silent query.

“He attacked Shor’s Stone, coming in from the Velothi Mountains,” reported the Blade tersely. “We’ve observed dragons coming and going from roughly southeast. I suspect Alduin’s base of operations to be somewhere in that area.”

“Aye, makes sense from Farengar’s map of dragon burials and what Esbern told us,” Brynjolf agreed.

“We also have a message from Laina; she’s recovered enough to send one to J’zargo,” Marius said, pulling out a piece of snowy parchment. “She’s set Urag gro-Shub to researching everything he can on Elder Scrolls.”

Brynjolf smiled. “That’d be the lass for you. How’s she doing as Arch-Mage?”

“Making everyone jump,” J’zargo the Khajiit purred amusedly. “Onmund thinks she’d have made a great Jarl.”

Laila and her eldest son were sent to Winterhold with a strong escort while Saerlund found himself crowned Jarl of the Rift. His wife-to-be Ingun Black-Briar had vanished, much to her mother’s fury, though Brynjolf didn’t seem particularly surprised.

“I was meant to be Jarl!” Maven raged at Fasendil. “How dare you break the agreement Rikke had with me!”

“ _I_ broke it, Maven.” Brynjolf’s smile was a cold thing as he withdrew a sheaf of papers. “You’ve been a naughty, naughty lass. Sponsoring bandit groups, selling to the enemy…”

“You worked for me!” Maven snapped.

“Maven, lass, I’ve got more influence than you can dream of.” Brynjolf’s tone was coldly amused. “ _I’m the Dragonborn._ The only reason I’m not High King is because I don’t want the job. As Day Master of the Guild, I was a petty, self-serving lad with no higher ambition. Now, I’m facing a demigod, and I realise just how small I was.”

“I stayed loyal to the Guild when you had no one else,” Maven told him.

“And you treated us like minions because Mercer allowed it.” Brynjolf’s tone turned grim. “I saw what the Silver-Bloods’ corruption did to the Reach and my people. I won’t let you destroy the Rift in the same way. You really shouldn’t have written anything down, lass.”

Maven’s expression was sick as two guards grabbed hold of her. “My friends in the Imperial Court won’t allow you to do this! They’ll destroy you.”

Brynjolf’s smile was icy. “I can assure you they’re rather busy with their own affairs at the moment.”

…

“A raging fire is a fine thing on a cold night,” Rustem said, popping the cork from his bottle of ale. “Anyone disagree?”

“Cicero likes bonfires,” the jester agreed happily. “The Night Mother approves of fire too.”

They watched the Katariah burn on the water, safe across the harbour as alarm bells rang in Solitude and the Legion cried in horror. Rustem chugged his ale, threw the bottle into the salt sea, and turned east. “Let’s go before they decide to check Hjaalmarch.”

By dawn they were deep into the Pale, safe in the temporary Sanctuary where the rest of the Brotherhood waited. The interception of a message from the Penitus Oculatus and a warning sent through the Guild had saved those of Falkreath Sanctuary who’d been outside when Maro’s minions came. Lacking options, Veezara and Gabriella had joined Nazir, Babette and Rustem here.

“We anticipated your success, reported it to Motierre and cleaned up any loose ends,” Gabriella said smugly after Rustem told her of their success. “What will we do now, Listener?”

Rustem rubbed his hands together. “I’ll be returning to Hammerfell. Nazir, you’re Speaker for Pale Sanctuary, Veezara will set one up in Windhelm once Sigdrifa’s toast, and Gabriella will be taking on the Reach. We’ve got recruits in Whiterun and Riften by name of Jenassa and Ingun.”

“Can we kill Siddgeir on the way through?” Gabriella asked. “I don’t want the Imperials to think they can get away with the murder of our brethren.”

Rustem waved a hand. “Be my guest. Falkreath could use a competent Jarl.”

The more confusion for the Empire, the better it would for them to disappear. Rustem cared not for political concerns, only familial ones, and Mede’s forces had cost them dear. He wasn’t above a little payback on the way home.

Some grudges were to be savoured and remembered, even when they were over.


	41. Fuck Your Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, misogyny and mentions of imprisonment, war crimes, child abuse and religious conflict.

“Sigdrifa, what have you done?”

Ulfric’s baritone actually cracked as he strode into the war room, recalled urgently from defence of Eastmarch’s southern border by an urgent message from Ralof. Sigdrifa irritably looked up from the map-table, her greasy hair indicative of time spent making plans instead of tending to herself, and for a moment he was thrown back to the Markarth campaign twenty-something years ago. “Making plans to defend Windhelm,” she snapped in answer. “Why aren’t you in the south?”

“There are, despite your best efforts, some still loyal to me,” Ulfric growled angrily. “Throwing our son into prison-!”

“We had the opportunity to gather the Dragonborn and his wench… and Bjarni threw it all away!” she retorted. “He let them go, Ulfric, when we could have compelled the Dragonborn with his woman. He could have used his Thu’um to atone for his crimes against Skyrim, if Bjarni hadn’t let him go. Let him rot in the Bloodworks for a few more days.”

“Ralof said that you were going to-“ Ulfric began, only to be cut off by Sigdrifa’s snort.

“I wanted to put the fear of Talos into him. Do you really think I’d’ve blood-eagled my own son?”

“Given that you left your own daughter from your previous marriage to die, yes,” Ulfric said with deliberate bluntness. “If you thought it would serve Talos, you’d commit any crime and call it honour.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t marry me for my looks and personality,” Sigdrifa observed sarcastically. “Have you heard anything from Egil? I sent him south to collect Laila’s tribute.”

Ulfric laughed harshly. “You’re a little behind the times, Stormsword! Egil was killed in a Legion ambush because the Dragonborn used his Thieves Guild connections to undermine Laila.”

Sigdrifa blanched. “No. Not Egil.”

“There were no survivors,” Ulfric said grimly. “Arkay’s Blade was kind enough to bury the corpses and send a message via pigeon to Helgird. Irkand Aurelius had more decency than anyone gave him credit for.”

Sigdrifa shuddered. “He likely killed Egil as vengeance for Callaina. Shor receive him…”

“Given the Legionaries are deliberately imprisoning or executing us as to make sure none go to Sovngarde, I’m guessing the Dragonborn’s warned them of Alduin’s favourite food…” Ulfric chuckled mirthlessly. “And indulging in a little petty vengeance. He’s a survivor of Karthwasten and was the son of Madanach’s Steward.”

Galmar came up beside him and wrapped an arm around his waist. “That dragon attack last week wasn’t… well. It seems all of the prisoners escaped the Bloodworks, including Brunwulf Free-Winter. We found the burnt remains of a catapult in the foothills. Bjarni left with them and we only know something of what happened because Torsten told us.”

“FUCK!” Ulfric roared, his Thu’um shaking the Palace of the Kings. “Damn you, Sigdrifa! DAMN YOU!”

“DAMN ME?” she retorted in her fishwife scream. “I’M THE REASON YOU HAVE YOUR FUCKING THRONE AND IF YOU’D LISTENED TO ME, OUR SONS WOULD BE ALIVE AND WE’D BE RULING SKYRIM BY NOW. BUT NO, YOU AND YOUR STUPID FUCKING ‘HONOUR’-“

Ulfric inhaled deeply, intent on blasting the woman into dust with his Thu’um, when Ralof came running into the war room. “Fort Kastav’s fallen and the Legion is here!”

Ulfric deliberately exhaled, the force of his breath blowing back the blond’s hair. “Take my axe, take the seal of Eastmarch, and find Bjarni wherever he may be. You and he must continue the fight, Ralof.”

The hearthman shuddered. “Ulfric…”

“I know I ask too much of you,” the Jarl of Windhelm said sadly. “But I want my son to know I loved him, even if his mother didn’t, and one of us to live free of the Empire.”

Ralof saluted, fist to chest. “Your will, my Jarl. I suspect he’ll be in Riften. Bjarni’s smart enough to convince the Guild he’s better off alive than dead and whatever you might say about the Dragonborn, his vengeance is… proportionate.”

“Proportionate?” Sigdrifa shrieked. “You call Egil’s death _proportionate_?”

“That was probably Irkand and Death’s Blade was owed for a dead niece by the Jarls of Falkreath,” Ralof said heavily. “Your own daughter, Sigdrifa. Your own fucking _daughter_. No wonder our cause was doomed from the start when one of its founders shit so profoundly on that which makes us Nord.”

Sigdrifa’s expression was stunned. “You knew?”

“I was one of Ulfric’s agents… and my mother assisted in your wedding to Rustem,” Ralof said bitterly. “Were it up to me, I’d throw you into the sea. But no one wants you around as a sea-ghost.”

He saluted again. “May we all be reborn – except you, Stormsword – in a Skyrim free of the Empire.”

After he left, Ulfric turned into Galmar’s embrace, ignoring the sniffling Sigdrifa behind him.

The end came two days after the Legion arrived, the Dragonborn blasting the gates of Windhelm and knots of defenders alike with his Thu’um. Unrelenting Force – the first Shout a Dragonborn learned, the simplest to understand because force was the truth of the world.

“Secure the door!” snapped the stocky General Tullius as he, Rikke Snow-Stone and the lithely handsome, rosy-fair, auburn-haired Reacher who could only be the Dragonborn entered.

“Already done, sir,” Rikke said with all her professional crispness.

“Ulfric Stormcloak! You are guilty of insurrection, murder of Imperial citizens, the assassination of King Torygg, and high treason against the Empire. It's over,” Tullius growled.

“Not while I’m still breathing, it’s not,” Galmar growled in defiance.

“Galmar… Please.” Rikke’s tone was soft. “None of us take pleasure in this. If Ulfric surrenders, we can stop killing Stormcloaks.”

Ulfric, lounging on his throne, laughed wryly. “I think the Dragonborn is, Rikke.”

“I just want you dead, lad,” Bryn said in that deceptively gentle brogue.

“I'll never surrender Skyrim into the hands of a corrupt and dying Empire,” Ulfric said simply. “Execute me as you must, Dragonborn. But I will not lay down to die.”

Bryn’s smile was vicious. “I was hoping you’d say that, lad. I want you to enjoy being eaten by Alduin.”

“Skyrim doesn't belong to you, Ulfric,” Rikke said sadly.

“No… But I belong to her.” Ulfric stood up and stepped down from the Throne of Ysgramor.

“Enough!” Tullius grated. “You are traitors and will die traitors' deaths. Stand down and face public execution, or advance and face summary execution by my hands. It matters little to me. Either way I'll be sending your heads back to Cyrodiil.”

Ulfric and Galmar exchanged one look. “Well then,” laughed the huscarl. “What are we waiting for?”

“Someone to show a little sense around here.” Sigdrifa’s raven-harsh voice cut through the expectant silence as she strode into the Great Hall. “It isn’t over until the head’s on the pike.”

Her smile was a cold cruel thing. “Dragonborn, thank you for attending. Better the world burn in dragon-fire than fall to the elves.”

And she threw Chain Lightning at Bryn.

But the Dragonborn laughed, breathed ‘Feim’ and became an ethereal creature that the lightning passed through harmlessly.

Rikke, trained as all Shieldmaidens were, threw the helmet she’d been carrying in one hand and struck Sigdrifa full in the face. The Stormsword stumbled back, tripped over the corner of the dais, and smashed her head open with an ugly crack on the side of the Throne of Ysgramor.

“Nice shot,” Galmar said with a grin.

“One does one’s best,” Rikke said modestly and for a moment, all three were just raw recruits in a military camp again.

Ulfric drew the sword he’d borrowed for today. “Last one to Sovngarde has to buy the drinks, if Alduin leaves any of us to do so.”

He and Galmar lost, of course. This was a choice of death, not a battle either of them hoped to win. Ulfric could only hope Egil had escaped Alduin and was waiting for them and that Bjarni knew he’d loved him.

“Well Ulfric, you can't escape from me this time. Any last requests before I send you to... to wherever you people go when you die,” Tullius growled.

“Sovngarde,” Bryn said with a roll of his eyes. The Dragonborn strode forward, picked up the sword Ulfric had dropped and wrapped the Jarl’s fingers around it. “Do me the favour of choking Alduin and make my job a little easier, lad.”

“Let the Dragonborn be the one to do it. It'll make for a better song,” Ulfric said as his other hand sought and found Galmar’s slack ones. Galmar had gone a little ahead of him.

“Song or not, I want it done,” Tullius said.

“Fuck Ulfric’s song,” Bryn said with deliberate malice. “Fuck your lowlander honour. Die now and know your soul’s fate in Sovngarde.”

Ulfric closed his eyes as Tullius’ sword swung down, Rikke’s whispered “Talos be with you” the last thing he heard.


	42. Ruminations and Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, religious conflict and imprisonment. Laina’s back, folks! I know canonically that Standing Stones only work for the Dragonborn, but that’s too boring, so I head-canon they work for everyone.

“Of course the Elder Scrolls are involved. It wouldn’t be a world-shattering crisis if they weren’t,” Urag observed as he put two tomes on the desk in front of Laina. “Here you go. Try not to spill anything on them.”

“I’m offended you even believe I would,” Laina said dryly as she reached for the first book.

“It’s reflexive these days,” the Orc admitted with a shrug. “I’d say happy reading, but Septimus is involved and the last I heard, Hermaeus Mora’s using his sanity as a skipping rope because he’s studying the Elder Scrolls. Be careful, Arch-Mage.”

“I will,” she promised before opening _Ruminations._

Three hours later, having read both tomes and _Pension of the Ancestor Moth_ , Laina closed the book with a sigh. J’zargo’s report had been brief by necessity and according to Urag, Elder Scrolls were above and beyond time in such a manner that the very act of reading one played havoc with one’s sanity and personal timeline. She didn’t envy Brynjolf his search for one.

It was something of a miracle she’d been able to wring some form of comprehension from _Ruminations._

“Urag,” she called over to the Orc, who’d not so subtly been keeping an eye on her as he ostensibly rearranged a nearby bookshelf. “About _Ruminations…_ ”

“Aye, that's the work of Septimus Signus. He's the world's master of the nature of Elder Scrolls, but... well. He's been gone for a long while. Too long,” sighed the Orc.

“Do you know where he went?” Laina asked.

“Somewhere up north, in the ice fields. Said he found some old Dwemer artefact, but... well, that was years ago. Haven't heard from him since,” Urag answered.

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“Oh no. I hope not. But even I haven't seen him in years, and we were close. Became obsessed with the Dwemer. Took off north saying he had found some old artefact. Haven't seen him since. Somewhere in the ice fields, if you want to try to find him.” Urag put a book he’d just dusted back in its place. “You’ve regained a lot of strength, Arch-Mage, but you’re not up to a trip across the floes. Signus’ outpost’s practically halfway to Atmora.”

“I know,” she said. “J’zargo sent me a report. Brynjolf needs to find the Elder Scroll that, in conjunction with a Shout known as Dragonrend, the Three Tongues used to defeat Alduin at the end of the Dragon War.”

“I wondered why you were so interested in the Elder Scrolls,” Urag said after a moment. “I was worried you’d gotten bored with the general run of magical academia and were looking for something exotic to study.”

Laina laughed wryly. “Not me. I still haven’t mastered the intricacies of the Schools yet.”

After summarising her notes with the warnings provided by Urag about the perils of delving into the Elder Scrolls, Laina left the Arcaneum and entered the Hall of the Elements, where Drevis Neloren was giving a lecture on the Doomstones that dotted Skyrim’s landscape. Ancient Nord mages had somehow captured the power of the stars in stones carved with the thirteen constellations and Onmund said that if a Nord touched one, they’d take upon the doom and power of the birthsign it depicted. She’d been born under the Lover sign on Heart’s Day in Sun’s Dawn and when they were in the Reach, she’d made a pilgrimage to that stone. It had tingled and glowed the blue-white of astrological magic when she touched it.

“Arch-Mage!” Drevis greeted with a salute. “I thought you had your nose stuck in a book as usual.”

“I’ve researched all I safely can on the subject,” she admitted as other members of the faculty glanced in her direction. A few refugees from Windhelm, including two Dunmer and an Argonian named Shahvee, had enrolled as apprentices for lack of anything else to do. Winterhold was more prosperous than folk realised between the richness of its hunting and fishing, the recent expansion of Whistling Mine to uncover more ores of varying metals, and the quality of the soil they’d uncovered in the making of the greenhouse. The Hold’s population had exploded and that meant once the basics of survival had been achieved, there were more hands than there was work until spring came and they could begin to use the quarried rock to build new homes and fortifications.

“See? Even the Arch-Mage knows when not to pursue a line of research,” Drevis told the gathered apprentices. “I want a thousand-word report on the differences between Doomstones and classical Heartland astrology by the end of the week. Class dismissed.”

“I miss shucking clams,” Shahvee observed ruefully to Suvaris as they left the Hall of the Elements.

“They’re coping well,” Laina said once the apprentices had gone.

“Keeping them busy is the key,” Drevis said soberly. “And giving them the space when they need time to process the trauma.”

“You survived the Red Year, right?”

“I did,” the Illusion Master said with a sigh. “You never heal fully but you learn to live with the scars.”

“I know what you mean,” Laina agreed.

Drevis smiled. “Ready for another lesson in Illusion? I’ve noticed it’s your weakest School.”

Laina laughed. “Why not? Maybe after reading about Elder Scrolls I can figure it out.”

When the lesson was done, she left the Hall of the Elements and crossed the courtyard to the College gates. The merging of the three islands that had once been the city of Winterhold had saved her a long cold walk, if nothing else; Dagur had already reopened the Frozen Hearth because everyone needed somewhere to eat and drink.

_Trust everyone to rebuild the pub first,_ she thought wryly as she entered the two-storey stone building that had replaced the thatched cottage of pre-Eye Winterhold. Atronachs, stone-melding and Telekinesis had made its construction in a week possible. The current building everyone was working on was Birna’s shop. The Jarl’s home would be third. Everyone was either sleeping in the College or the pub, entitled to three meals and a pallet a day so long as they did _something_ to support Winterhold’s rebirth, even if it was gathering snowberries or chopping wood. Only the still-healing survivors of Sigdrifa’s pogrom were excused.

Laina paused just inside the common room, allowing herself a surge of hatred and disgust at the woman who’d birthed her. How could someone be so… so… disconnected from the rest of humanity? Rikke had been a Shieldmaiden too but even through she was brusque, professional and a little detached in her Legion duties, she still radiated warmth and empathy for others.

She dismissed the musings. There was nothing she could do for Sigdrifa. The Legion had taken the Rift and were moving on Eastmarch. Windhelm would soon fall and the civil war be over.

The common room was crowded as always, Haran and Viola Giordano handing out bowls of vegetable soup and hunks of bread to the labourers. Until Winterhold had some liquidity, the economy was barter-based, Dagur keeping track of what chores were worth a couple flagons of beer or a chunk of horker meat. No one disputed his tallies, because the beer and the horker meat made the endless meals of bread, gruel and vegetable soup tolerable. It was a good thing he and Haran were fundamentally honest.

“I have to chop wood!” exclaimed a brown-haired young man in fine scaled armour, his tone dismayed, to Dagur. “I’m Harrald Law-Giver and I demand-“

“Harrald!” snapped an older woman with amber-brown hair and travel-stained robes of fine wool and fur. “We’ve been given a place in Jarl Brynjolf’s court by his grace and mercy. Given they piked Ulfric, Sigdrifa and Galmar’s heads at Windhelm’s gates, we should show some gratitude. It could have been our heads at Riften.”

“You can haul stone or water, work in the mines or help clear the rubble,” Haran told Harrald tartly. “Even the Arch-Mage lends a hand and she singlehandedly defeated an evil Thalmor mage who nearly ended the world!”

“If you have any skill at combat, you have the option of joining the new Hold guard,” Laina suggested diplomatically as she got in line for her bowl of soup and bread. “Or work on the boats or join the hunters.”

The older woman, clearly Harrald’s mother, shook her head. “We’re under interdict. Brynjolf has retained me as a political adviser and Harrald might be able to join the guard, but neither of us may hold a position of authority ever again. If we serve loyally, we might be allowed to own property again in a decade or so.”

“I’m guessing you’re Laila Law-Giver?” Laina asked after a moment’s thought.

“I am,” confirmed the woman. “Former Jarl of Riften. My other son, who was loyal to the Empire, now rules the Hold. Maybe they’re better off for it as the other option was Maven.”

“I’ve heard stories of Maven. She was worse than the Silver-Bloods and I saw what the Silver-Bloods did in the Reach.” Laina offered her hand. “Laina Green-Fingers, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold.”

Laila took it, shaking once. “Thank you. I’ve heard stories of your prowess in sorcery and battle. I’m told you’re the equal of Shalidor.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Laina said ruefully. “I was the channel of a higher power in the fight against Ancano. I’m still trying to decipher Shalidor’s basic writings.”

“Shalidor was needlessly cryptic as he was, at heart, a magical elitist,” remarked Nelacar, who lived outside the College and peddled his magical wares to passing adventurers due to an ill-advised foray into necromancy. Laina didn’t much like him, but she didn’t press for his exile, because she’d rather have him where she could keep an eye on him. “Your understanding of Alteration would make an Alinorian mage proud, Arch-Mage.”

“I had the advantage of early tutoring and access to Altmer textbooks,” Laina said with a shrug. “Any apprentice, with due diligence and a bit of luck, can learn as much as I have.”

“Your modesty is commendable, though a true Nord accepts praise they’re due,” Laila said. “I can see what Brynjolf sees in you.”

Laina flushed, much to her surprise. Laila’s main faults, she’d heard, had been cluelessness and a lack of engagement with her people, not selfishness or cruelty. “Thank you,” she said. “You said something about Windhelm falling?”

Laila nodded. “It wasn’t much of a battle. The Dragonborn broke the gates and barriers with Unrelenting Force while the Legion did the rest. Ulfric and Galmar fell in battle; Sigdrifa brained herself on the Throne of Ysgramor. Jarl Brynjolf sent me ahead to tell everyone.”

Laina accepted a bowl and bread from Viola. “I was told he got involved because some idiot tried to arrest him.”

“Sigdrifa’s atrocities exceed those of Hoag Merkiller and with far less cause,” Laila said grimly. “Her name will go down in Nord history as one of our greatest shames.”

“I can well believe it,” Laina said softly. “I can well believe it.”


	43. Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, war crimes, criminal activities, imprisonment and religious conflict.

In the near-month he’d been gone, Winterhold had transformed dramatically. A new city wall enclosed from the pass that led to Whistling Mine down to the main valley which sloped down to the coastline to the far side of the Sky Temple Ruins. A glasshouse the size of Mistveil Keep had been built with figures moving in, tending the rows of tender green crops, and the Frozen Hearth was now a two-storey stone building. Another one was being built, Birna manning a stall just outside it, and the gridded streets being laid out when he was last here were now dug into the earth and laid with cobblestone. Several Dunmer, Nords and Argonians ran around carrying wood, stone or water under the gaze of a Dunmer overseer, a womer and an Argonian female in apprentice robes melted snow into water that flowed into what looked like irrigation pipes attached to the glasshouse, and an Altmer had her hands in the compost pile as she turned scraps into fertiliser. From the looks of it, Winterhold’s population had quadrupled since the Windhelm jailbreak.

“Someone’s been cribbing from the way things are done in Alinor,” Marius noted as they walked down the main street towards the College. “There’s a lot of public works spells that most non-Altmer mages can’t be bothered to learn.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Brynjolf observed as J’zargo spotted Onmund and made a beeline for the Nord mage. “They’ve done a lot in what… three weeks?”

“Something like that. I suspect some of this is make-work.” Marius rubbed his now-crooked nose. “Is that Laina I see by the wall?”

It was and since he’d last seen her, she’d doubled her weight again but still leaned a little on the Staff of Magnus and wore the bearskin cloak Marius had smuggled into her quarters. “All the Schools feed into each other,” she lectured to a cluster of apprentices and townsfolk. “The most obvious ones are Alteration and Restoration, but before you begin with those Schools, you must start with alchemy. From the stars of the sky to the bones of the earth, magic is omnipresent in Nirn, and when used in the right combination, ingredients can produce magical effects. We will begin with the staple of an alchemist’s pharmacopeia – the healing potion.”

“I thought we were making potions, not porridge!” yelled someone in the back.

“Blue mountain flower and wheat are the most common alchemical ingredients in Skyrim, with the alchemical properties of both restoring and fortifying health,” Laina answered mildly. “That’s why when you make your morning gruel, you’re making a weak potion. Now quit your bitching and get to grinding that wheat or go back to hauling rocks, Angrenor. It’s all the same to me what you do instead of drinking.”

A few snickers followed her words and the students got to work. Now Brynjolf knew why every household in Skyrim had blue mountain flower porridge for breakfast. No wonder lowlanders were so hearty.

Laina detached herself from the group, putting them under the command of some Cyrod lad whose fingers were near as green as her own, and walked over with a warm smile wreathing her features. Now she’d regained a lot of weight and strength, the white hair didn’t make her look like a frost-rimed draugr and the Staff of Magnus was less support and more affectation.

“I’ll get a room at the pub,” Marius said quietly, turning around.

Brynjolf wished he hadn’t gone. Though he hadn’t killed Sigdrifa directly, he’d had a hand in her death regardless, and now he had to explain himself to the woman who was the Stormsword’s daughter, however estranged. Marius could have found the words, surely.

The Dragonborn, the Guild’s finest conman, couldn’t find the words to tell her.

“I know,” Laina said simply. “Laila told me.”

Well, that wasn’t helpful.

“Lass, I…” Brynjolf trailed off, uneasy under that blue-green gaze. “Your ma…”

“She brought her end upon herself. I’m just sorry so many people died because of her,” Laina said flatly. “Man and mer always count the dead, Brynjolf. But the gods count the living. Your intervention saved hundreds of lives. In the end, that’s what counts.”

Brynjolf swallowed. After Ulfric’s death, even knowing he was damned to a fate worse than death, he’d felt almost as hollow as he did after killing Mercer. Vengeance might be satisfying in the sagas and the songs, but in real life, it was an empty satisfaction that filled the belly like Grelod the Kind’s cabbage-water soup. What that said about Brynjolf, he wasn’t sure. He’d never subscribed to the lowlander concept of honour but even in Reacher tradition, bloody vengeance was a glorious thing. Except, after seeing all the atrocities of war and conquest and religion, all he felt was weariness.

“Maybe so, lass,” he agreed. “I realised I had the power to stop another Karthwasten after Sigdrifa’s huscarl tried to arrest me.”

“You might be one of the few Dovahkiinne who save more lives than they take,” she said softly.

Well, at least he wasn’t likely to become another Talos.

As they walked towards the College, Laina revealed she’d found a scholar who’d made a study of Elder Scrolls who lived halfway to Atmora and offered warnings about the danger of reading them unprepared. “I suspect the reason I didn’t crack trying to comprehend Septimus’ _Ruminations_ is because I’m descended from Sheogorath,” she concluded. “I can only assume the Dragonborn’s unique relationship with Time will protect you in a similar manner.”

“I certainly hope so,” Brynjolf said fervently.

“I had Onmund cast the runes to give us some more clues as to what to expect,” Laina continued. “It’s an imprecise means of prescience but it’s less prone to invoking mental instability than other forms of divination.”

“Like astrology?” Brynjolf asked amusedly.

“Contrary to popular belief, astrology is even more imprecise than runes, and is better suited for charting optimal times for certain events and magical rituals or predicting the base personality of someone born under a certain sign,” she answered in that absent scholar’s tone. “Astrological divination is actually more useful for retrocognitive or…”

“Lass, I think we agree I’m no mage once we get out of the basics,” Brynjolf interrupted with a laugh. “Contemplating the nature of the Thu’um’s confusing enough. Let’s not throw astrology into the mix.”

“I’ll spare you the talk about Nordic Doomstones as a means of circumventing or reinforcing the astrological effects of one’s birthsign on your personal development then,” Laina said with a laugh. “Only that the Atmorani had a point about someone ‘choosing their Doom’ and-“

“Lass, stop!” Brynjolf begged.

“You don’t want to know how I reinforced my birthsign by finding the appropriate Doomstone?” she asked, grinning.

“No!”

She laughed and for the moment, Brynjolf was able to lay aside the burden of being Dragonborn. Before he crossed the icefields to Septimus, he was going to take a couple days for himself. He’d earned it.


	44. Another Area of Criminal Enterprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Brynjolf in tartan and a kilt; you’re welcome.

It took Brynjolf two days to cross the ice and speak to Septimus Signus, receive the most likely entrance to the mysterious Blackreach, and return to Winterhold to confer with the College. But it took a month for him to chase that lead because if Dwemer ruins were involved, he wanted Laina by his side and she needed to recover from her ordeal. So he spent that month getting used to being a Jarl, delegating various jobs, and hunting dragons in the Pale or Whiterun or Eastmarch when called upon by other Jarls or the Legion.

The Empire, wisely, was rebuilding roads and fortifications that had been neglected before and during the civil war. The new Empress, one Akaviria Medea, had popped up in Solitude after her grandfather’s gruesome death and confirmed Jarl Elisif the Fair as High Queen. The new Moot was due before their trip to Alftand so Brynjolf, Laina, Marius, Quaranir, Sevan Telendas and Faralda travelled to Solitude via ferry and made the long walk up to the port city.

“Dear gods,” Endarie exclaimed when they entered Radiant Raiment. “What abomination are you wearing?”

“I’ll grant dragonhide armour’s not pretty, lass, but it’s proof against frost and fire,” Brynjolf protested.

“I was referring to Laina’s mantle,” Endarie said bluntly.

“It’s the traditional garb of the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold,” Laina said amusedly.

“It’s hideous.”

“I know, but I’m contractually obliged to wear it,” Laina said dryly.

“Mage, Blade and Psijic,” Endarie said with a roll of her eyes. “Are you here for new outfits or to assault my eyes with the godsawful taste displayed by all and sundry?”

“New garb. And if you can make the Arch-Mage’s mantle look a little less like an old dishrag and more like the grand garment worn by the greatest mage in Skyrim, I’ll enchant every bit of jewellery you have in the shop for free,” Laina answered with a smile.

Faralda clapped her hands in glee. “Finally! Savos insisted we not flaunt ourselves as mages. That’s why we wear blue and grey.”

“I wouldn’t put those robes on the poorest apprentice from the scabbiest slum in Firsthold,” Endarie said critically. “What about you, Psijic?”

“I’ll take Psijic robes of silk-velvet and fur if it’s available. Silk wears wonderfully, but…” Quaranir spread his hands with a shrug. “It’s colder than a five-century marriage bed in Winterhold.”

“We can do silk-velvet,” Endarie assured him. “But you’ll look less sallow if we make maroon the main colour. That cream makes you look jaundiced.”

“Thanks,” the monk said dryly.

The womer turned to Brynjolf. “You’re in luck there’s a fashion for Reacher knotwork at the moment.”

“Aye, lass?” he asked. “Well, as Jarl of Winterhold, I’ve been told I need to wear something in the Hold’s colours.”

“Ugh. Grey and grey. Those colours don’t really suit you,” Endarie said critically.

“Karthwasten’s tartan is silver and sage green,” Laina said suddenly. “If we add threads of sea-grey and flint-grey to the mix, they’ll harmonise with the other colours and not be overwhelmed by his hair while referencing the Hold he rules and the town he comes from.”

“Maybe,” Endarie said begrudgingly. “As for you, what in Auriel’s name did you do to your hair?”

Marius, for his part, was put into deep sapphire and gold with Akaviri-style cording at neck and wrists while Faralda indulged herself with a gloriously scarlet, amber and saffron set of robes that suited her lean frame.

Brynjolf got to see the sisters use magic to dye plain velvet into a plush tartan that turned out better than he expected, pairing the great-kilt and plaid combination with a crisp white silk-wool shirt and polished black boots. “Aww, your knees have dimples,” Faralda said when he modelled the outfit. “Aren’t those dimples cute?”

“Adorable,” Quaranir said absently, taking a gander at Marius’ bulky frame. Maybe things weren’t quite dead between the two mer.

Laina’s Arch-Mage mantle was transformed into a vision of night-blue silk with the astrological signs embroidered in thread of silver over deceptively simple black robes that sheened silver-blue-green when hit by the light. She’d kept her part of the bargain by enchanting the valuable gold jewellery and a few choice garments that Taarie deemed worthy of it.

“You should get rid of that gold ring on your thumb,” Taarie said critically as Laina donned the silver-and-moonstone circlet Savos had given her. “It clashes with the silver and iron.”

“It’s an heirloom,” Laina said simply.

Sevan Telendas nearly swallowed his tongue when they emerged from Radiant Raiment, eyes bulging at the sight of Faralda. Brynjolf had to admit the womer made a fine showing like a phoenix burning against the drab grey of a Skyrim winter.

The Moot started two hours later as it was more a confirmation of decisions already made and a recognition of Imperial loyalists than a traditional Moot, or so Idgrod remarked when they entered the Audience Chamber. Akaviria, a short, sturdy Cyrod girl whose eyes were as hard as any veteran’s, wore a purple cloak over her fine scaled armour while Elisif was a vision of Solitude’s scarlet, Skyrim’s ice-blue and the gold of a High Queen. Argis wore chestnut-brown wool trimmed with scarlet under the great-kilt and plaid of Karthwasten threaded with the copper reserved for a clan-chief. Aside from Balgruuf resplendent in snowy furs, indigo silk and heavy gold, the other Jarls were a drab lot, indicative of the poverty Ulfric and Sigdrifa had left the Old Holds in.

After the new Harbinger (Brynjolf didn’t even know the old one had died) made the requisite prayers and greetings, Elisif stepped forward with a smile. “We welcome you all to the first Moot of my reign,” she said warmly. “I welcome the Jarls who have joined us since the last Moot of my husband’s reign. Welcome one and all, and may our loyalty to the Empire bring the peace and prosperity Skyrim deserves.”

“Having spent much of my life in the Old Holds, the Empire couldn’t run us into the ground more than the Stormcloaks did,” Saerlund Law-Giver remarked sarcastically. “But peace and prosperity won’t happen until the Dragonborn does something about the dragons. What’s taking him so long?”

“Pardon me, lad, for taking a break after arranging your seat on the Mist Throne and helping to hand Ulfric’s arse to him,” Brynjolf answered sardonically. “Unless you’ve got an Elder Scroll somewhere…”

“We’ve got several in Cyrodiil but it’d take at least two months to bring one and the Moth Priest to read it up here,” Akaviria said as Saerlund reddened. “May I ask why you need one?”

“An Elder Scroll was used by Felldir the Old to cast Alduin on the winds of time at the end of the Dragon War, according to the Ysmir Collective,” Laina answered crisply. “We have a lead for that one, but it’s taken us a few weeks to martial ourselves to follow it. Elder Scrolls are dangerous things and none of us need to be driven mad by one.”

“Aye,” Brynjolf confirmed, giving Laina a grateful look. “We decided to attend the Moot first, then go pick it up on the way home.”

Balgruuf stroked his long goatee. “I suppose you’d like me to fix up the dragon trap my ancestor Olaf built?”

“Couldn’t hurt, lad,” Brynjolf said with a smile. “Short of trapping a dragon in Markarth, Dragonsreach is the least flammable of the likely places.”

The Jarl of Whiterun nodded. “I’ll do it. I was reluctant to offer before because Ulfric and Sigdrifa would have attacked my city. Now…”

Elisif smiled radiantly; Brynjolf could see why she was called the Fair, but as lovely as the lass was, she really didn’t hold a candle to Laina. “Whatever resources the Dragonborn needs to defeat Alduin, he will be given… within reason, of course.”

“Lass, I’m hurt,” Brynjolf said. “I’m a reformed man now.”

Idgrod didn’t have to snort like she did.

“I’m a little concerned Bjarni and Egil are unaccounted for,” General Tullius, uncomfortable and gruff in ceremonial armour, ventured.

“Egil’s alive,” reported a stocky Redguard in quilted leather with an Amulet of Arkay around his neck. “Me and Isran persuaded him to join the Dawnguard. When he discovered his mother’s plans for his brother, he disavowed the Stormcloaks in mine and Isran’s presence.”

“Bless Sigdrifa for being the greatest ally the Legion could have ever had,” Rikke said with a broad smile.

Akaviria blew out a sigh. “You’ll vouch for him, Irkand?”

“He’s more than half-Vigilant anyway. Keeper Carcette will confirm his vows,” the Redguard said simply. “I’m disappointed you killed Sigdrifa before I could. I owed her for Callaina.”

“She threw lightning at the Dragonborn because she’d have sooner seen the world burned than lose,” Rikke told him with a sigh. “You have to admit, knocking her out with a helmet is the sort of ignominious end she deserves.”

Laina’s mouth tightened but she said nothing. It was better the world believe the Aurelii practically dead.

“I imagine explaining that to Tsun would be embarrassing, assuming she doesn’t end up in Alduin’s belly,” Irkand said, brightening.

“Pfft, lad, he’d spit her out,” Brynjolf said dryly. “Now Ulfric and Galmar, I made sure those two went to Sovngarde. May Alduin choke on them.”

He was still empty from the hollow vengeance but refused to show it publicly. He was a man of the Reach and the Reach deserved to rejoice in Ulfric’s damnation, even if he didn’t do so.

Argis grinned evilly. “Well, that makes my day. What about Bjarni? He was always the more likeable of the Storm-Spawn.”

“If he’s alive, there’s not a lot he can do to rouse rebellion again,” Brina Merilis of the Pale noted. “I don’t think you comprehend the level of disgust and betrayal the common Nords feel for Ulfric and his chief officers. Even those who resent the Empire and the loss of their god won’t follow any of Ulfric’s kin.”

“We’ll keep an eye out. That’s all we can do,” Akaviria said with a sigh of her own. “Any more business?”

All in all, the Moot wasn’t unlike a Guild meeting, and Brynjolf found he didn’t mind the politics at all. Laina got the College’s political neutrality recognised and it given the same privileges as the Companions, a motion seconded by Balgruuf – who’d gotten involved with Mirabelle Ervine, of all people, whose wheeled chair was quite impressive. Idgrod, Argis, Brina and Falkreath’s new Jarl Nenya (an Altmer, which probably pissed Ulfric off to no end) backed him and Elisif confirmed it.

When it was done, Brynjolf felt the same satisfaction as he had when a heist went right.

“That’s odd,” Quaranir observed after the Moot broke up. “I’d have thought Elenwen would be here. She likes to stick her nose in places where it’s not wanted.”

“She had a terrible accident,” Tullius observed wryly. “Choked on a bit of cheese a couple weeks ago and since there’s no Thalmor of suitable rank around, they’ll have to send for a new Ambassador.”

“Well, what with Ondolemar’s death and Ancano’s demise, I think it’s some fourth-rate bootlicker named Lalenil who’d be in charge,” Marius noted.

“No, he died in that Stormcloak raid on Northwatch Keep,” Tullius supplied. “Next is Estormo?”

“Tried to kill me after I’d defeated a Dragon Priest in Labyrinthian,” Laina told him. “J’zargo exploded him. If the Embassy wanted to bury him, they’ll need to scrape it into a bucket.”

“What a shame. Rulindil?” Quaranir mused.

“Nope. He got eaten by the troll that lived in the escape route of the Embassy,” Tullius said cheerfully. “I don’t know trolls were neat eaters, but all we found were his bones.”

“Has anyone thought to ask Irkand?” Rikke asked as she approached them.

“Irkand’s not that subtle. He’d have stabbed them all.”

“I resemble that,” the Redguard assassin said as he walked by. “Go ask the Madgoddess about the cheese and I hope that poor troll didn’t get a bellyache.”

“It sounds like it’ll be a mystery for the ages,” Tullius said, ignoring him.

“Yes, a mystery for the ages,” Laina agreed sardonically.

“You’d know about mysteries for the ages, wouldn’t you, Arch-Mage?” Rikke noted.

“It’s in the job description,” Laina said mildly. “Just like I’m sure you’ve forsaken the heathen rites of the Shieldmaidens.”

Tullius raised an eyebrow. “Are you accusing my Legate Primus of worshipping an illegal god?”

“Not at all,” Laina said blandly. “She’s still irritated I returned to the Synod rather than become the Bruma Fourth’s Praetor-Magus.”

“You’re Legion?” Brina Merilis joined them.

“Anvil Third,” Laina admitted.

Brynjolf pegged Rikke with the kind of stare that strongly suggested the Legate Primus keep her mouth shut. To her credit, she took the hint immediately and changed her tune to talk old war stories with Brina, Tullius and Laina.

Even a Jarl could make use of blackmail if need be. Politics was another area of criminal enterprise after all.


	45. But Not Yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse. ‘Elder Knowledge’, here we come!

“By the Reclamations. None of us ever dreamed…”

Laina allowed herself to catch her breath as Sevan Telendas breathed in awe at seeing the vast subterranean cavern called Blackreach. Warmed by an artificial sun that sat like a fat orange above a literal forest of fungi, it was truly awe-inspiring, but the whispering ahead warned her it was as dangerous as it was beautiful.

“More Falmer,” she said tersely.

“I sense them, lass,” Brynjolf breathed after whispering “Laas.”

There were Falmer, their spider and chaurus pets, and for a change of pace the dragon imprisoned in the artificial sun, but nothing compared to the horror they’d left behind in Alftand. Umana, the sole survivor of the previous expedition here, spent most of her time speechless at the ease with which their experienced team cut through the enemies before them.

Laina got a whole bunch of new soul gems, which she and Faralda filled, and stuffed her satchel full of alchemical ingredients that were difficult to get elsewhere. Sevan’s gladius broke and he replaced it with an enchanted Dwemer blade while Faralda found an antique enchanted necklace she liked the look of. Quaranir kept a Falmer staff as a curiosity while Marius, Brynjolf and Umana just took anything that looked portable and valuable.

Eventually, they found the Tower of Mzark and the Oculory within. “There was definitely some cultural exchange between the Dwemer and the Ayleids,” Laina noted on seeing the familiar blue-green lens. “The combination of mechanics and astromancy in Nord Dwemer ruins is interesting.”

“You’ve made a study of astromancy?” Quaranir asked curiously.

“It’s come up in my studies. I’ve read Buoro’s _Astronomicon._ ” Laina moved over to where the last person to make it this far died, picking up their journal and reading it. “Poor bastard. Trapped here by wolves at the top and the Falmer outside, then starved to death because he couldn’t figure it out.”

“You really did give her a lot of the prescribed texts,” Quaranir noted to Marius.

“Why not? It wasn’t like I could allow her intellect to be starved by the rationing of the Synod… or let the Thalmor conceal the magics they thought to be their sole preserve,” Marius retorted defensively.

“It isn’t a matter of…” Quaranir sighed. “She was what, twenty or thirty years old? I wasn’t even allowed to touch the _Astronomicon_ until I was forty and my father thought I was too young!”

“Fourteen and already fairly familiar with geomancy thanks to her grandmother’s Reach-magic training,” Marius said proudly. “Astromancy is the next logical step in the progression of a good education.”

Quaranir’s nostrils flared. “She was a bloody child!”

“Fourteen or fifteen is roughly the same level of development as a thirty-year-old Altmer for a human,” Faralda told the Psijic. “Laina tells me she was practicing Adept-level Alteration spells at the age of eight.”

“It was study magic or listen to my mother rave,” Laina said quietly.

“There are…” Quaranir sighed. “I’m not an elitist. I believe that if someone can learn the magic, they should be given the chance. I also understand that humans mature faster than mer. But a child should be given the chance to be a child.”

“It wasn’t something the Blades did,” Marius said shortly.

“Then forgive me, perhaps it’s better the order’s dead, for they were no better than the Thalmor.”

“Amen,” Sevan agreed grimly. “Even the Ordinators wouldn’t take an apprentice younger than twenty.”

“So, Oculory?” Brynjolf asked. “I can feel the Scroll in there.”

It was here that the magic of the Psijics came into play as Quaranir invoked a shadowy simulacra of the people who had used the chamber in times past. The Dwemer were roughly the size of the Dunmer, the elaborate beards of the automatons revealed to be based in the architecturally inspired braids and ringlets worn by the ancient mechanists, and they fair gleamed with copper, bronze and tin. When his spell was done, Brynjolf put the blank lexicon into its slot, pressed the buttons in the appropriate sequence, and freed the Scroll from its prison.

“Leave that there,” Laina advised when he went to collect the lexicon. “Urag said that Hermaeus Mora was using Septimus’ sanity as a skipping rope and having read the man’s writings, I’m inclined to believe it.”

“I promised, lass,” he said softly.

“There’s a reason why the Woodland Man is feared in ancient Nord history. Because once you accept him, there’s only an endless search for knowledge that never satisfies you.” Laina nodded back to the skeleton in the previous chamber. “Mora wants the inscription of an Elder Scroll written in starlight for a reason. I doubt it’s benevolent.”

“As you say, lass.” Brynjolf crossed the Oculory to fetch the Scroll. “I suppose old Septimus will have to find another sucker.”

The Tower of Mzark was located in the uncertain border region of Hjaalmarch and the Pale, revealing the sheer size of Blackreach, and they had to overnight in Dawnstar before returning to Winterhold in the morning. Laina could feel the power of the Elder Scroll on the earthbones, like fingers strumming on lutestrings; since the ordeal with the Eye, her geomantic senses had grown keener. What had changed in her since that day?

She supposed it was a question she’d never see answered.

Somewhere over the past several months, Winterhold had become home and when she saw the College rise up out of the mists, she felt a sense of completion. The refugees from Windhelm had generally chosen to remain, which was hard on Brunwulf as he had less hands with which to rebuild Eastmarch, but the extra hands had benefited Winterhold considerably. Quicker than Rikke thought this Hold would become a prosperous place, the College’s prestige revitalised. Solitude might now be capital of Skyrim but Winterhold…

“Winterhold will become the magical and religious heart of Skyrim,” Quaranir remarked.

“You can see past Alduin’s defeat?” Laina asked softly and urgently.

“Not on a great scale. But the signs are already there.” The Psijic smiled. “One day, you and I will take sail for Artaeum. But not for a while, even by our standards. Your Brynjolf will go to Sovngarde before you even consider it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Laina.” Quaranir’s voice was chiding. “We both know you’ve removed the veil which blinds most. Whether you like it or not, you’ve set your foot on the spiral path that leads us back to the Aedra. It can be forestalled for a time but not denied.”

“I have no intention of going anywhere or even talking about it,” Laina said firmly. “As you say… it can be forestalled. For the Dragonborn… for the man I love…”

“Love is one of the great truths of the universe. There’s a reason why two Divines encapsulate it.”

“Three,” Laina corrected. “You forget Kynareth. Shor’s warrior-widow, the Mother of Man and Beast, the Storm and the Kiss at the End. She loves this world, as do all the Aedra, and She will fight to preserve it. Akatosh may give men the souls of dragons… but it’s Kyne who gave them the Thu’um in the first place.”

“I think I understand you Nords now,” Quaranir observed.

“Before we are done, the Altmer will understand, because I don’t see the Thalmor giving up.”

“They won’t,” Quaranir agreed grimly. “But you and I will be there to stop them.”

“I know.” Laina looked at Brynjolf. “But not yet.”

“But not yet.”


	46. When Sovngarde Beckons...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and grief. We’re getting to the endgame, folks!

“What is the meaning of this?” Arngeir demanded as Brynjolf led his merry band of dragon-killers into High Hrothgar.

“We’re learning Dragonrend, lad, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us,” Brynjolf said cheerfully. “If Alduin comes a-calling, like old Esbern thinks he will, he’s going to get his arse kicked.”

“You didn’t quite tell me who Alduin was,” Umana murmured to Laina.

“He’s the enfleshed Nord version of Satakal who decided ruling the world was better than clearing it for new worldskins,” Laina answered. “Since Kyne and Akatosh think otherwise, they gave Brynjolf the power to kick his scaly arse back to Aetherius.”

“Understood,” the Redguard mercenary said shortly. Since they’d saved her life at Alftand, she was only too happy to cooperate.

“You’ve brought Blades here!” protested Arngeir.

“Well, yeah, it’s a bit hard to kill dragons with toothpicks,” Umana said sarcastically.

Wulfgar stifled a laugh enough to only make High Hrothgar quiver a little bit and Quaranir burst out laughing. Even Esbern looked amused, but Marius was giving Arngeir an eye-narrowed glare.

“I mean…” The Greybeard choked back the words, his face puce. “Go and be done with it. Don’t get Paarthurnax killed.”

Brynjolf nodded. “We don’t intend to, lad.”

It was a beautiful day, Skyrim laid out like a patchwork quilt from the top of the Throat of the World. “You have it. The Kel - the Elder Scroll. Tood kreh... qalos. Time shudders at its touch. There is no question. You are doom-driven. Kogaan Akatosh. The very bones of the earth are at your disposal. Go then. Fulfil your destiny. Take the Scroll to the Time-Wound. Do not delay. Alduin will be coming. He cannot miss the signs,” Paarthurnax rumbled.

“Diamond formation. Mages, use lightning to drain the World-Eater’s magicka and reduce his ability to Shout. Umana, Marius, try to flank him. Umana, you wield a shield, so try to put it between us and his teeth.”

“I see you’ve made a study of how to defeat dragons,” Quaranir observed as they took their positions.

“I’m descended from the Dragonguard. I was born for this.” Lightning crackled between Laina’s fingers on her left hand as she wielded the Staff of Magnus in the right.

Brynjolf walked to the distortion of air that Paarthurnax called the Time-Wound and unfurled the Scroll. Then all became awash with stars and shadows as the vision took him.

…

Alduin, leaking blood and guts, flew away to the southeast desperately with pain-filled roars. Laina leaned on her staff, panting and cursing the lack of stamina since her ordeal. If she’d been able to throw one or two more Lightning Bolts, they could have ended this here and now.

“We’re gonna need the dragon trap,” Esbern said wearily, his voice slurred. “Odahviing. Lieutenant. Knows where Alduin’s portal to Sovngarde is.”

Then he collapsed, shuddering once, and was still.

Laina knew by the time she knelt by him that he was dead. The closest thing she’d ever had to a grandfather-

Her howl of grief was a wind that churned up a storm, clouds spiralling above High Hrothgar, and the rain that fell was no fiercer than the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

Brynjolf took her in his arms as Marius knelt, picked up the dead Nord, and rose with an expressionless face.

“I was Grandmaster once,” he said. “Let me carry him.”

They used brush from the courtyard of High Hrothgar to build the pyre on which Esbern was laid. Marius arranged his body in the traditional manner, clasping knotted fingers around the hilt of his tanto, closing the eyes decently. Wulfgar, who Laina remembered from Cloud Ruler, attended but Arngeir maintained a frosty distance. Paarthurnax set the blaze alight with his own Thu’um.

“Lot krongrah. You truly have the Voice of a dovah. Alduin's allies will think twice after this victory,” he told Brynjolf.

“Wasn’t much of a victory, lad,” he answered unhappily.

“Ni liivrah hin mere. True, this is not the final krongah - victory. But not even the heroes of old were able to defeat Alduin in open battle. Alduin always was pahlok - arrogant in his power. Uznahgar paar. He took domination as his birthright. This should shake the loyalty of the dov who serve him.” Paarthurnax sighed gustily. “The Bruniik, the Akaviri, died fulfilling his oaths. What better end for a Bron… for a Nord?”

Laina wiped at her eyes. “What if he’s devoured by Alduin?”

“Aaz-Beyn is clever enough to hide from Alduin,” the dragon said gently.

“We need to know where Alduin fled,” Quaranir said with a sigh.

“Yes... one of his allies could tell us. Motmahus... But it will not be easy to... convince one of them to betray him. Perhaps the hofkahsejun - the palace in Whiterun... Dragonsreach. It was originally built to house a captive dovah. A fine place to trap one of Alduin's allies, hmm?”

“Esbern’s last words,” Marius said soberly. “He told us Odahviing would know.”

“Yes. A Sahqo-dovah – a red dragon. Rare and not inclined to rule. A powerful enemy… or ally.” Paarthurnax’s eyes reflected the flames of Esbern’s pyre. “Your su'um is strong. I do not doubt you can convince the Junsebron of Whiterun of the need.”

Laina had learned long ago to think and work even while her heart broke. She wiped her eyes again, squared her shoulders and gave Esbern’s pyre the salute. “Your sacrifice will not be in vain, Fourth Blade, and your kith await you in Heaven’s Reach Temple. All oaths will be fulfilled soon. But grandfather of my heart, it should not have been you to pay the ultimate price. May you reach the Whalebone Bridge an hour before Alduin knows you’re dead.”

And she turned on the burning ruins of her past, as she had on another day twenty-five years ago, and looked to the next battle. For she was of the Nords, and they fought all their lives, and when Sovngarde beckoned… every one of them died.


	47. A Few Hours Yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“Of course it would come to this,” Balgruuf said wearily as the Dragonborn presented his mad plan. “I trust you have a way of stopping this dragon from setting fire to my city?”

“Red dragons don’t go for general carnage the way average dragons do,” answered the Arch-Mage after a glance at the Dragonborn. “Nahfahlah, for instance, served Tiber Septim as a lieutenant during the Tiber War and was entrusted with guarding the soul gem containing the spirit of the Crown warleader Prince A’Tor. Anything less would have offended him as red dragons like to be the vassal of greater dragons who have won their loyalty through superior Thu’um.”

“We sent Alduin packing at Monahven and that’s going to make Odahviing reconsider his allegiances,” Brynjolf agreed. “No dragon, when called out to, will pass up the chance to test a worthy opponent’s mettle.”

The Dragonborn steepled his fingers. “Dragonrend will keep him grounded and once he’s in range of the dragon-trap, someone with a quick arm can pull the lever and trap him. He’ll be willing to negotiate, if not outright serve me.”

“I’m putting my city into your hands,” Balgruuf said grimly. “Please don’t let the dragon turn it into a smoking ruin.”

Brynjolf’s grin was roguish. “Trust me, lad. I know what I’m doing.”

…

“ODAHVIING!”

Brynjolf’s Voice rang out across the horizon, echoing off Monahven and driving birds into the sky, but there was no response for long minutes.

“Steady,” Laina said calmly. “Even a dragon can’t come hither to yon in a few moments.”

The Arch-Mage was still marked by sorrow for Esbern’s death and while Marius had only known him for a few months, he knew the loss was a real one. In Heaven’s Reach Temple, Esbern would not stand ashamed in the company of Kin-Tatsuo, Baurus, Jauffre and all the Blades who died in the Oblivion Crisis.

An impatient guard walked out to the edge of the porch, peering up. “I don’t see no drag-“

A red flash and a fine mist of blood were the harbingers of a most embarrassing demise.

“Dovahkiin! Here I am!” roared Odahviing as he returned, spitting out the guard’s head. “Gah! Tastes like mead!”

“He lives in Skyrim and he’s not a mead fan,” Quaranir said with forced lightness as the green-gold of a Paralysis spell glowed in his hands.

Marius gave his former lover a quick grin before drawing the mace he’d borrowed for this fight.

“Steady! Steady, now! Keep under cover until it's down!” Balgruuf yelled to his men.

“Here, dragon, dragon, dragon,” Brynjolf said as he stepped back. “Pspsps.”

“I’m fairly certain dragons aren’t cats!” Laina said as she threw a Paralysis spell at the beast.

“It’s worth a shot, lass!” he retorted gaily.

“Get back! Get back! We need to trap it, not kill it!” Balgruuf ordered. “That's it! Now, wait until he's inside!”

“JOOR ZAH FRUL!” Brynjolf roared as Odahviing lunged towards him.

“Got him!” Balgruuf announced triumphantly as the wooden collar snapped around the prone dragon’s vulnerable neck as he slid facedown along the porch.

“Niid!” wheezed the unhappy Odahviing.

“I think it's holding!” yelled Irileth from her place at the lever.

“Horvutah med kodaav. Caught like a bear in a trap... Zok frini grind ko grah drun viiki, Dovahkiin,” Odahviing sighed as Dragonrend wore off. “Ah. I forget. You do not have the dovah speech. My... eagerness to meet you in battle was my... undoing, Dovahkiin. I salute your, hmm, low cunning in devising such a grahmindol - stratagem.”

“Well, lad, you showed more courage than Alduin did at our battle,” Brynjolf assured the dragon. Marius smiled as he realised the Dragonborn was applying his conman wiles to winning over the beast.

“Zu'u bonaar. You went to a great deal of trouble to put me in this... humiliating position. Hind siiv Alduin, hmm? No doubt you want to know where to find Alduin?” Odahviing countered shrewdly.

“Aye. Where’s the big black bastard run off to? I’m sure he’s got a nice little hole he likes to hide from the world and lick his wounds in,” Brynjolf answered.

“Rinik vazah. An apt phrase. Alduin bovul. One reason I came to your call was to test your Thu'um for myself. Many of us have begun to question Alduin's lordship, whether his Thu'um was truly the strongest. Among ourselves, of course. Mu ni meyye. None were yet ready to openly defy him…” Odahviing sighed, scarlet jaws working in what had to be the draconic version of chewing one’s lip in thought.

“You were telling me where he ran away to,” Brynjolf pressed.

“Unslaad krosis. Innumerable pardons. I digress. He has travelled to Sovngarde to regain his strength, devouring the sillesejoor... the souls of the mortal dead. A privilege he jealously guards... His door to Sovngarde is at Skuldalfn, one of his ancient fanes high in in the eastern mountains. Mindoraan, pah ok middovahhe lahvraan til. I surely do not need to warn you that all his remaining strength is marshalled there. Zu'u lost ofan hin laan... now that I have answered your question, you will allow me to go free?”

“So that explains the dragons we saw in the Velothi mountains _and_ the pattern of draconic resurrections in Farengar’s dragon map,” Laina noted with a scholar’s calm reserve. Only the few who knew her would see past the Legionary’s sternness to the pain shimmering in her eyes at the thought of Esbern’s potential fate.

“As the rek-Bruniik says,” Odahviing confirmed. “You have chosen your mate well, Dovahkiin.”

“I followed her home one day and she never got rid of me,” Brynjolf said lightly. “So what’s the rest of it, lad? I can tell you’re not giving me everything.”

“Hmm... krosis. There is one... detail about Skuldalfn I neglected to mention,” Odahviing said amusedly. “You have the Thu'um of a dovah, but without the wings of one, you will never set foot in Skuldafn. Of course... I could fly you there. But not while imprisoned like this.”

Brynjolf’s eyebrow rose. “Are you offering to serve me, lad?”

“Aam? Serve you? ...No. Ni tiid. If and when you defeat Alduin, I will reconsider,” Odahviing mused.

“We seem to be at an impasse, then,” Quaranir noted.

“Indeed. Orin brit ro. I cannot leave here until you defeat Alduin, which you cannot do without my help,” Odahviing agreed. “Go and see for yourself. Zu'u ni bo nol het. I will be here... unless Alduin returns before you do.”

“Nothing stopping me from giving Paarthurnax a call. I’m sure he’d like a free meal in return for a ride,” Brynjolf said with the particularly bright smile that showed him to be in a deadly mood.

“He won’t do that. It would be a violation of the Way of the Voice,” Laina told him as she approached them. “Big red bastard’s got us over a barrel and he knows it.”

“Old gods damn it, woman, I know that!” Brynjolf exclaimed, turning to face her. “But he didn’t!”

“If you’re going to have a working relationship with someone as your vassal, you need to offer them honesty and trust,” Laina retorted calmly. “Odahviing has failed and trapped like this, he’s a free meal for any dragon looking to advance himself in Alduin’s eyes. He’s got as much reason to assist you as any of your former Guildmates did.”

“Since when did you become an expert on draconic personalities, lass?” Brynjolf asked, folding his arms.

“Since I spent a month convalescing and took that time to learn all Esbern knew of the Akaviri dragonlore,” Laina countered. “I know all the named dragons that survived the Dragon War, their burial places and their personality traits. Odahviing has tested you and you prevailed. He will carry you to Skuldafn, though he’ll bugger off afterwards in case you fail.”

“Would you not in my position, rek-Bruniik?” Odahviing asked dryly.

“No. But I’ve already lived through the worst life can throw at me and came out singing.” Laina paused. “In a matter of speaking. My singing has been reliably compared to a seagull suffering a throat condition.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, several of the gathered Nords laughed.

Brynjolf nodded, acquiescing with a sigh. “Then we’ll do it.”

“Onikaan koraav gein miraad. It is wise to recognize when you only have one choice,” Odahviing agreed. “And you can trust me. Zu'u ni tahrodiis. Alduin has proven himself unworthy to rule. I go my own way now. Free me, and I will carry you to Skuldafn.”

“Then tomorrow we ride.” Brynjolf paused. “Do you swear by Bormahu that if I have you released now, you won’t fly away? I’ll have meat brought to you either way.”

“Zu’u vaat naal Bormahu,” the dragon agreed. “I swear by our Father Akatosh.”

At Brynjolf’s nod, Irileth pulled the lever and released Odahviing.

“You are wise and cunning, Dovahkiin,” Odahviing mused. “Alduin may yet be doomed.”

What remained after dinner was to do decide who would go with Brynjolf. Odahviing was strong but only capable of carrying one other, Laina reluctantly decided after examining him.

“That’s easy, lass,” Brynjolf assured her. “It needs to be-“

“Marius,” she interrupted. “Not that I don’t want to but… he was Grandmaster once, and the Grandmasters of the Blades have many secrets, including how to summon every Blade or Dragonguard who ever lived by their oaths. Not all of those who died went to Heaven’s Reach Temple, because according to our lore, it was only the post-Talos Blades who were given that place in Sovngarde at the Hero-God’s behest.”

She sighed heavily. “Marius carries an entire army at his disposal. At best, all I can do is throw a few lightning bolts. Neither Wabbajack nor Dawnbreaker will work in Aetherius.”

“Fuck, lass! We began this together and we should end it together!” Brynjolf cursed.

“We should,” she agreed unhappily. “But even if I did know how to summon Kin-Tatsuo and his ilk, I lost a lot of stamina fighting Ancano. If we could carry a couple more on Odahviing’s back, it would be safe enough to bring me. But I’m not at my physical peak and it would be dishonourable of me to allow sentiment to make me a potential weakness when you face a rejuvenated Alduin.”

She wiped her eyes. “I’m not as tough as I was, Bryn, and if I came and you died for it… I would spend the rest of humanity’s meagre lifespan never forgiving myself. I’m the last true descendant of Kin-Tatsuo, the Golden Dragon who laid his sword at Reman Cyrodiil’s feet and proclaimed him Dragonborn! I should be there, showing Alduin the Akaviri blood hasn’t thinned that much, but I won’t be because I can’t be!”

The Dragonborn inhaled shudderingly and nodded. “You’re right, lass. Gods fucking damn it but you’re right.”

He took her arm. “Come on, lass, don’t weep. We’ve got a few hours yet.”

They left the room and Marius exhaled forcefully. “Laina may have never taken oath as a Blade, but she’s lived up to it greater than any ancestor since Aurelia Northstar.”

Quaranir nodded. “Indeed. Marius… I…”

“I wronged you and Fasendil,” Marius admitted heavily. “It was wrong of me. I should have… I don’t know.”

“It was the best of a bad lot of choices. I’m a Psijic now. It is given to me to see the what-could-have-been of our mortal fates,” Quaranir said softly. “I was angry you lied to me. You said that you cared for me and you lied to me.”

“I did care… and I did lie.” Marius ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “But I was glad you hated me, because it meant you were alive to do so.”

Quaranir’s eyes filled with tears. “I never knew.”

“I was never given the chance to tell you.” Marius managed a crooked smile. “If it’s any consolation, Fasendil broke my nose for it.”

The monk gave a watery smile. “That would be him.”

Marius held out his hand. “To quote our wise and cunning Dragonborn, don’t cry. We have a few hours yet.”

“Finally!” Odahviing exclaimed in disgust. “My teeth were rotting from the honey-sickness around here.”

Perhaps flipping the bird at the dragon wasn’t the most mature thing to do, but Marius was rather surprised to see Quaranir doing it.

He laughed and he cried and it was a fitting action on this night.


	48. Sovngarde Awaits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“This is as far as I can take you. Krif voth ahkrin. I will look for your return, or Alduin's.”

Odahviing flew off, leaving Brynjolf and Marius at the foot of Skuldafn, with all of Alduin’s forces arrayed against them.

“I was expecting more dragons,” Brynjolf observed, seeing the three who hovered above the ruins.

“Odahviing did say you’d shaken the dragons’ confidence in their overlord,” Marius noted. “The dragons are the main threat and the way Skuldafn is built, there’s no way to evade them.”

“I can bring them to where I want them,” Brynjolf said. “Even down to the ground if need be. ZUL MEY GUT!”

The first dragon, drawn by the power of the nifty little Shout Brelyna had found during his month-long break, landed on the ground with his back to them. Marius drew his dai-katana and charged, landing in a feet-first slide under the lifted tail, weapon opening the beast’s softer belly scales. Brynjolf realised that all the morning exercises he performed had a purpose in killing dragons.

Empowered by the first dragon’s soul and the second Word of Fire Breath, a gift from the Harbinger, he found the draugr and skeleton guards not that much of a threat as they ascended steadily higher into the ruins. Even here, the preserved dead had been buried with grave goods, and he instinctively stuffed gems and ancient coins into his pockets. But the greatest piece of loot was the second Word of Storm Call, a Shout that Laina said was so devastating that all three Words could destroy an army. Having seen one Word in action, he could well believe it.

The crown of Skuldafn was guarded by two dragons, four powerful draugr and the masked lich called a Dragon Priest. Unrelenting Force scattered the draugr, sending them to their final end on the unforgiving stones below, but they spent a lot of time sheltering behind Marius’ Ward spells as the dragons and Dragon Priest expressed their displeasure with Shouts and magic. It took precious minutes to regain his Thu’um but when he did so, Brynjolf used Throw Voice to get the two dragons to collide into each other as they sought to attack where they thought he was.

“Crown of Akatosh’s creation my arse,” he muttered before using Dragonrend to keep the bigger one down so Marius could kill it.

Two dragons (and souls) later, he was facing the Dragon Priest, who muttered imprecations in Dovahzul that made him laugh. “My wife could insult me better on her worst day than you can on your best,” he laughed before using his ebony daggers, enchanted to bring pain to the undead, to finish it off. He pocketed the mask left behind because Laina had said Dragon Priest masks had secret powers.

Then he and Marius plunged into the portal to Sovngarde.

When they emerged, for a moment they saw the Vale of Heroes clear under a sky the hue of amethysts before Alduin’s mists cloaked the place. Within that unholy fog, souls cried out in fear as the World-Eater hunted.

“You can banish those mists with Clear Skies long enough to bring the souls safely to Tsun on the other side,” Marius said quietly. “Alduin already knows we’re here.”

“I know Esbern could be in there,” Brynjolf agreed. “Laina would send me right back here when we’re done if we don’t try to save him.”

Esbern was in the mists; so were the young doomed High King Torygg, several recognisable Stormcloaks and Legionaries, Galmar Stone-Fist and Ulfric fucking Stormcloak himself. “Damn,” Brynjolf said on seeing him. “I was hoping Alduin had choked on you by now.”

“I am no easy meat, even for the World-Eater,” Ulfric said bitterly. “Take pleasure in knowing that no matter how I searched, I couldn’t find my son Egil anywhere in the Vale. Alduin has no doubt feasted on his soul.”

Brynjolf was tempted, oh he was tempted indeed, to let Ulfric continue thinking Egil was dead and soul-chow. But seeing the expectant expression on Esbern’s face, he found he couldn’t do it.

“He isn’t dead,” he said shortly. “Irkand Aurelius let the Legion think he was dead and then sent him to the Dawnguard to fight vampires.”

“Irkand?” Ulfric demanded. “Why would he care?”

“He didn’t see the need for another child of the Stormsword’s to die from her ambitions,” Marius said acidly. “You brought your ruin upon yourself, Ulfric. Be grateful the Dragonborn has given you an eternity to ponder your sins.”

“You know nothing of what I endured!” Ulfric roared.

Marius strode over, picked the Jarl of Windhelm up one-handed, and then punched him twice in the face before throwing him back to the ground. “I was a deep cover Blades agent for over a century,” he hissed. “I know what the Thalmor did and I know better men than you died for Talos.”

He stepped back, spitting to the side in disgust. “None of you Stormcloaks were adequate inheritors of the legacy of Jauffre, Baurus and Sidgara. Now shut up and follow us, or become fodder for the World-Eater.”

“Dragonborn,” Torygg murmured as they strode through the mists, “Would that mer accept a thank-you note?”

“Probably, lad.” Brynjolf sighed. “Elisif is High Queen and Skyrim united under the Empire’s rule.”

“I would have supported Ulfric, you know that?” Torygg observed. “But he never gave me the chance.”

Torygg really was as stupid as the stories painted him, Brynjolf reflected as they gained the Whalebone Bridge.

“What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here, in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honoured dead?” demanded the massive, blunt-faced man wearing a loincloth that revealed almost grotesquely bulging muscles.

“Who the fuck are you?” Brynjolf blurted.

“I am Tsun, shield-thane to Shor. The Whalebone Bridge he bade me guard and winnow all those souls whose heroic end sent them here, to Shor's lofty hall where welcome, well earned, awaits those I judge fit to join that fellowship of honour,” rumbled the man.

“Calls himself a Nord and he doesn’t know who Tsun is,” Galmar muttered disgustedly behind him.

“That’s nice, lad,” Brynjolf drawled. “I’m here to kick Alduin’s arse.”

“A fateful errand. No few have chafed to face the Worm since first he set his soul-snare here at Sovngarde's threshold. But Shor restrained our wrathful onslaught - perhaps, deep counselled, your doom he foresaw,” Tsun observed.

An awkward silence ensued before Brynjolf asked, “So, can I cross the bridge?”

“No shade are you, as usually here passes, but living, you dare the land of the dead. By what right do you request entry?” Tsun asked.

“Because I’m the bloody Dragonborn, you oversized git!” Brynjolf snapped.

Tsun laughed. “Ah! It's been too long since last I faced a doom-driven hero of the dragon blood.”

“Face? What do you mean by ‘face’?” Brynjolf demanded.

“Living or dead, by decree of Shor, none may pass this perilous bridge 'till I judge them worthy by the warrior's test,” Tsun said, drawing his axe.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Brynjolf cursed as he ducked under the axe’s swing. “I don’t need this today!”

Tsun, whoever he was, wasn’t immune to a blow to the balls and as the demigod bent over, wheezing in pain, Brynjolf allowed himself a few choice words drawn from Laina’s extensive vocabulary. He wished she was here; she could have warned him!

“You fought well. I find you worthy. It is long since one of the living has entered here. May Shor's favour follow you and your errand,” Tsun said as he rose to his feet. “I will test these others.”

Unsurprisingly, Marius caught up with Brynjolf halfway across the Whalebone Bridge. “I used to wish I was a Nord when I was younger, fostered in Lord Warhaft’s household,” he observed. “Now, having spent extensive time among them, I find the majority of them irritating and the prospect of eternity in Sovngarde more akin to an eternal punishment than an eternal reward!”

Brynjolf roared with laughter. “I’m a Nord and I feel the same way!”

“Sovngarde is just wasted on some Nords,” Galmar muttered behind them.

Everything was golden in Sovngarde from the dead heroes to the crockery. Brynjolf swiped a golden platter on principle as the hulking brute that called himself Ysgramor welcomed the dead Nords with open arms.

“Welcome, Dragonborn! Our hall has stood empty since Alduin first set his soul-snare here. By Shor's command we sheathed our blades and ventured not the vale's dark mist. But three await your word to loose their fury upon the perilous foe. Gormlaith the Fearless, glad-hearted in battle; Hakon the Valiant, heavy-handed warrior; Felldir the Old, far-seeing and grim,” greeted the genocidal Atmoran when he got to Brynjolf.

“What of Heaven’s Reach Temple?” Marius asked sharply as Brynjolf pondered what to say to the hero of legend.

“Alduin feasted on the souls of those who called themselves Blades first,” Ysgramor answered with a shrug. “He foresaw them as a more dire threat than we who answer to Shor-“

“Marius!” A black-haired woman wearing the totemic armour of a Shieldmaiden shoved a shocked Ysgramor aside, her unlovely voice shrieking like a raven’s. For a wild moment Brynjolf thought Sigdrifa was here and damned Shor for allowing her that glory, then he realised this woman was a little shorter and rounder, her eyes a twinkling sea-green.

“Sidgara!” Marius embraced the woman with a broad smile. “Oh, thank the gods you’re here!”

“Being surrounded by mer-haters must have been fun,” Sidgara said ruefully. “Took you long enough. The rest of us have been waiting.”

Marius inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “I’m still alive. I’m the last Blade. The Dragonborn has arrived to give Alduin his just desserts.”

Sidgara gave Brynjolf a quick assessing glance. “Reacher?”

“Bryn mac Gillam of Stone Streets and Silver Valley Clans,” Brynjolf answered.

“Somewhere, the gods are having a good laugh,” Sidgara said wryly. “Well, Dragonborn, we few Blades who remain await your order. Let us go forth now for glory and for prophecy and the red ruin of Alduin’s hopes.”

“Are you a Shieldmaiden?” Brynjolf asked in disbelief.

“I am,” she confirmed.

“The order declined rather sharply after your demise, culminating in a woman – your thrice-great-niece – who betrayed every oath she ever made from Shieldmaiden’s to marriage to that of a Blade,” Marius said soberly. “She slew Bryn’s mother, abused his wife – her own daughter – and had plans to blood-eagle her own son for keeping honour.”

Sidgara’s expression hardened. “It’s a good thing she hasn’t arrived then, because I would cast her into the Endless Chasm myself. Dragonborn, let my sword make poor recompense for my kinswoman’s actions.”

“The more folks between Alduin and I, the better,” Brynjolf answered, a little shaken.

Other Blades, including a smiling Redguard who called himself Baurus and a stern man who called himself Jauffre, greeted Marius with smiles and hugs and Brynjolf with salutes and awe. As the mer exchanged news with his dead friends, three Atmorani approached, clad in archaic armour and robes.

“Dragonborn,” greeted Felldir the Old. “We await your command.”

“Well then,” Brynjolf said, inhaling deeply. “Let’s end this.”


	49. For Hope at World's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Totally and shamelessly cribbing some of Marius’ speech from Eomer’s charge at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields in LOTR.

“At long last! Alduin's doom is now ours to seal - just speak the word and with high hearts we'll hasten forth to smite the worm wherever he lurks,” Gormlaith announced triumphantly.

“Hold, comrades - let us counsel take before battle is blindly joined. Alduin's mist is more than a snare - its shadowy gloom is his shield and cloak. But with four voices joined, our valour combined, we can blast the mist and bring him to battle,” Felldir advised.

“Felldir speaks wisdom - the World-Eater, coward, fears you, Dragonborn. We must drive away his mist, Shouting together, and then unsheathe our blades in desperate battle with our black-winged foe,” agreed Hakon.

Gormlaith rolled her eyes. “To battle, my friends! The fields will echo with the clamour of war, our wills undaunted.”

“I see Felldir’s the brains of the operation,” Brynjolf said with a sigh as the blonde Gormlaith headed for the door.

“The Jarls of Falkreath are descended from him,” observed Sidgara with a laugh. “Hakon, brother to Gormlaith, was father to Wulfharth’s lineage. The Golden-Hilt died without issue.”

“Because she was daft enough to charge Alduin before Felldir could read the bloody Scroll,” Brynjolf said, rolling his eyes. “I see death doesn’t teach some people lessons.”

“You can say Ulfric and Galmar,” Esbern said dryly. He looked a lot more hale in the afterlife.

Brynjolf glanced at the named duo, who were already arm-wrestling with Kodlak Whitemane, uncaring of what lay outside the sacred walls. “I already have.”

“Shall we? Gormlaith’s likely to get herself killed – again,” Jauffre, who turned out to be Marius’ father, said pointedly.

Outside, Tsun encouraged them on. Typical lowlander – he was happy to send others to die without getting his hands dirty.

“We cannot fight the foe in this mist!” Felldir cried out after they’d crossed the Whalebone Bridge.

“Clear Skies - combine our Shouts!” Gormlaith urged.

They did so and within moments, Alduin’s sepulchral tones retaliated with “VEN MUL RIIK!”

“Again!” Gormlaith yelled.

“We can shatter his power if we Shout together!” Felldir agreed.

Another Shout, another return of the mists by the World-Eater’s dire Shout.

“Does his strength have no end? Is our struggle in vain?” Hakon, who sounded like the depressing sort, asked in despair.

“Stand fast! His strength is failing! Once more, and his might will be broken!” Gormlaith crowed victoriously.

“His power crumbles - do not pause for breath!” Felldir encouraged.

One more Shout and the mists were banished to reveal Alduin in all his pitch-glory ingloriousness. He was a patch of void against the amethyst skies of Sovngarde, the end of all things, his Voice the emptiness of the grave and the promise of annihilation.

“Dragonguard! The time for all oaths to end is here! Forward now for ruin, forward now for glory, forward now for hope at the world’s ending!” Marius roared, raising his dai-katana. “Ima sugu mae ni susunde, sekai no taberu hito ni muda o okimashou! Forward now to lay waste to the Eater of the World!”

And behind the golden mer, wreathed in the same light as the heroic dead, emerged dozens of warriors clad in similar armour to Marius but hailing from all races – and a few Brynjolf didn’t even know existed, like the snake-folk with their tawny scales and long legless serpentine bodies or the short, stocky humans with skin of bronze or gold and straight dark hair.

To be honest, he thought wryly as he drew his daggers and prepared to unleash Dragonrend, Marius would have been a more impressive and worthy Dragonborn than himself.

Light and dark met in a clash of shifting shadows, Alduin a mighty mountain besieged by a torrent of water. He stood alone, proud and potent in his might, seemingly unassailable against all who attacked. He was world’s end, hope’s end, and they were too weak to withstand his awesome power. Droplets of water against granite harder than the world itself.

But drops and drips could become trickles, which became rivulets that braided themselves into streams, which flowed into rivers that cut their way through earth and stone to become the fathomless sea. Alone, they were negligible, practically nothing. Together… water had worn away mountains in time, for it moved while stone stayed still.

Dragonguard perished, their soul-wrought flesh tearing under Alduin’s claws and teeth, battle-cries fading away into silence. But for every Blade who died under the World-Eater’s vengeance, another minute was bought to unleash Dragonrend or to cleave ebon hide with blade and spear. Slowly, surely, a wounded crocodile nibbled to death by ducks, Alduin weakened until all he could do was cry out to the heavens in disbelief before cracking apart like broken ceramic.

There was no rush of soul for Alduin was still too powerful, perhaps even too necessary, to become another victim of the Dragonborn. But he died, despairing, and for Brynjolf that was enough.

He fell to his knees, panting, as the remnant Dragonguard whooped and hollered in victory.

“That was a mighty deed! The doom of Alduin encompassed at last, and cleansed is Sovngarde of his evil snare. They will sing of this battle in Shor's hall forever. But your fate lies elsewhere. When you have completed your count of days, I may welcome you again, with glad friendship, and bid you join the blessed feasting.”

Tsun rested his hand on Brynjolf’s shoulder as the others cried out, “All hail the Dragonborn! Hail him with great praise!”

Marius helped Brynjolf to his feet, his face flushed rose-gold with excitement. “Another day, another apocalypse averted. I do hope there’s no more. I’m getting too old for this.”

“Ugh, one’s enough for me, lad.” Brynjolf retrieved his daggers and sheathed them. “I intend to return home to Winterhold. I’ve been away from Laina for too long.”

“And I from Quaranir,” agreed the mer.

“Return now to Nirn, with this rich boon from Shor, my lord: a Shout to bring a hero from Sovngarde in your hour of need. Nahl...Daal...Vus!” Tsun thundered.

When Brynjolf’s vision cleared, he was standing atop Monahven, dragons circling around the sky-touching peak.

“So, it is done. Alduin dilon. The Eldest is no more, he who came before all others, and has always been,” Paarthurnax said in weary grief as the other dragons chanted.

“You don’t sound happy, lad,” Brynjolf observed.

“Happy? No, I am not happy. Zeymahi lost ont du'ul Bormahu. Alduin was once the crown of our father Akatosh's creation,” the dragon sighed.

“But it was necessary,” Marius pointed out soberly.

“You did what was necessary. Alduin had flown far from the path of right action in his pahlok - the arrogance of his power. But I cannot celebrate his fall. Zu'u tiiraaz ahst ok mah. He was my brother once. This world will never be the same.”

“The world’s better off without him, though I sorrow for your grief, lad,” Brynjolf told Paarthurnax with a sigh.

“I am glad you believe that. At least it will continue to exist. Grik los lein. Even I cannot see past Time's ending to what comes next. Niid koraav zeim dinoksetiid. We must do the best we can with this world.” Paarthurnax sighed gustily. “Alduin wahlaan daanii. His doom was written when he claimed for himself the lordship that properly belongs to Bormahu - our father Akatosh.”

The dragon began to beat his tattered wings. “Perhaps now you have some insight into the forces that shape the vennesetiid... the currents of Time. Perhaps you begin to see the world as a dovah. But I forget myself. Krosis. So los mid fahdon. Melancholy is an easy trap for a dovah to fall into. You have won a mighty victory. Sahrot krongrah - one that will echo through all the ages of this world for those who have eyes to see. Savor your triumph, Dovahkiin. This is not the last of what you will write upon the currents of Time.”

He took to the air. “"Goraan! I feel younger than I have in many an age. Many of the dovahhe are now scattered across Keizaal. Without Alduin's lordship, they may yet bow to the vahzen... rightness of my Thu'um. But willing or no, they will hear it! Fare thee well, Dovahkiin!”

The old grey dragon flew away as Odahviing, a fierce scarlet against the grey skies over Skyrim, cut through the crowd of dragons to hover just above Brynjolf and Marius.

“Pruzah wundunne wah Wuth Gein. I wish the old one luck in his... quest. But I doubt many will wish to exchange Alduin's lordship for the tyranny of Paarthurnax's ‘Way of the Voice’. As for myself, you've proven your mastery twice over. Thuri, Dovahkiin. I gladly acknowledge the power of your Thu'um. Zu'u Odahviing. Call me when you have need, and I will come if I can.”

“I appreciate it, lad,” Brynjolf told him. “If it’s any consolation, Alduin was all ‘This can’t be, I’m immortal and eternal, blah blah blah’ before the end.”

Odahviing gave a wicked chuckle. “Those who themselves strong and invincible find themselves taught otherwise in times of trial. Return you to your mate in Winterhold. I will make sure your journey is undisturbed.”

The dragon laughed and took off as the others finished their mourning for Alduin.

“I can see it in your eyes. You've seen the land of the Gods and returned,” Arngeir observed as they entered High Hrothgar’s main chamber.

“Aye, lad,” Brynjolf confirmed.

“Then it is done at last. Perhaps it was all worth it, in the end.” Arngeir sighed heavily. “You've shown yourself mighty, both in Voice and deed. In order to defeat Alduin, you've gained mastery of dreadful weapons. Now it is up to you to decide what to do with your power and skill. Will you be a hero whose name is remembered in song throughout the ages? Or will your name be a curse to future generations? Or will you merely fade from history, unremembered? Let the Way of the Voice be your guide, and the path of wisdom will be clear to you. Breath and focus, Dragonborn. Your future lies before you.”

“He certainly won’t be remembered as a Grandmaster who abandoned his vassals to hide away on a mountain!” Marius snapped angrily. “Stay and stew on your mountain, Julius Martin. All oaths are fulfilled and the Blades are dead.”

“You know nothing,” Arngeir retorted frostily.

“I know enough.” Marius drove his dai-katana into the stone at the Greybeard’s feet. “The Oathblade you once gave me. Keep it, for all oaths are done and I am free of it. And of you.”

Brynjolf chose to remain silent until they were walking down the seven thousand steps, likely never to return to High Hrothgar. “Ex-boyfriend?” he asked tactfully.

“The son of Martin Septim and Aurelia Northstar – Laina’s great-grandfather and the last great Blades Grandmaster,” Marius answered tersely. “I loved him once and went into deep cover at his behest. But he forsook his oaths to hide himself on a mountain while the Blades bled and died under his son Arius. I once considered him the benchmark of all Blades. Now, that honour belongs to Esbern, my father and even Laina.”

“No wonder he was an arse,” Brynjolf observed. “Well, fuck him.”

“No, thank you. My standards are rather higher these days.”

Brynjolf laughed as they descended from the mountain. Prophecy was done and the world was saved. It was over.


	50. Epilogue: Tally the Living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Can’t be arsed to do trigger warnings in this final chapter, so if I touch on something, I’m sorry. I’ll be taking a couple days off from writing until I know what’s going on with the RTX 3000 graphics cards coming out, then building my new PC and reinstalling a bunch of games and mods. I appreciate you sticking with me as I take Brynjolf on an unexpected character journey.

“You want me to wield a Daedric artefact?”

Laina raised an eyebrow at Egil, clad in the quilted leather and dulled steel plate of a Dawnguard, as she offered Dawnbreaker. “It does me no good here. If you won’t wield it, give it to someone else.”

Reluctantly, his rigid features tight with disapproval in a way she remembered well, the youngest son of the Stormsword took the weapon. Laina decided then and there not to tell him of their mutual kinship, not yet, because Egil was too young and too black-and-white to understand the shades of grey in the world. Such rigidity made him an excellent paladin but a poor realist.

After a few more words, he left the Arch-Mage’s quarters to return to the Frozen Hearth. Laina knew he grieved for his parents, sickening as their actions were, and decided to make nothing of his curtness. They all had scars from the Stormsword, and at least he was doing a little good in the world.

Two days ago, the dragons had informed the world Alduin was dead, and so she knew it was over. But she wanted to see Brynjolf with her own eyes, to know he’d come through prophecy hale and whole. The daughter of a bloodline shattered by prophecies, she could only hope things were well. Marius was more a father to her than her own and Brynjolf her man. Her heart rode on this as much as the world’s salvation did.

Work was always a sure-fire cure for the doldrums and so Laina wrapped her bearskin cloak around herself and left her quarters. It was morning and so the children’s class was being run by Quaranir, who took the duty of the Psijics to lay down a strong moral foundation seriously, and old Tolfdir who delighted in teaching the magical heritage of the Nords. Laina paused, smiling, as young Assur was coaxed through producing his first flame through the Fire-Galdr all Nords learned. Korir had hated magic but his son was learning the Clever Craft.

_I’ll reach out to the heathens in the hills,_ she mused as she left the College. _Skyrim’s lost a lot of its pride and heritage thanks to the White-Gold Concordat. Reminding her of the pre-Talosite culture can only be to her benefit._

Birna’s shop had been built and the Jarl’s longhouse was well on its way. Laina shook off her cloak, left it on the rack, and gathered magicka to her hands. Time to earn her keep by laying stone and fusing it into the solid seamless walls that wore so well under Winterhold’s permafrost.

They built five inches of wall today, a fine effort when fieldstone was mortared together with a special kind of cement and then merged with Alteration to produce a pleasing mottled blue-grey. Onmund had figured out the formula for stalhrim (spriggan sap, crushed snowberries and ground ice wraith teeth) and they’d learned to combine it with ice to build the new walls of the city. More advances in magical knowledge had occurred under her brief tenure as Arch-Mage than it had in ten years of Savos Aren’s.

“The Jarl’s returned!” Umana, now an officer in Winterhold’s rebuilt Hold guard, was the one to bellow the news. Laina washed her hands, grabbed her cloak, and practically ran to the gates.

Brynjolf was red-flushed and burnt from the glare and wind of the snowfields while Marius had discarded his Blades armour for a set of steel plate, an Alinorian greatsword slung across his back. “Yes, yes, Alduin’s dead,” the mer assured the guards. “The dragons have agreed to behave, as they know resurrection isn’t possible.”

Laina hurled herself at Brynjolf as the crowds parted, landing unerringly in his arms as he grabbed her and spun her around, ending it in a kiss that earned a cheer from all and sundry.

“Sovngarde wasn’t much fun without you, lass,” he said after breaking the kiss. “Esbern’s okay, Marius punched Ulfric in the face and I got to crack Tsun’s balls.”

“You did _what_ to Tsun?” yelped the horrified heathen Onmund.

“I was in a hurry,” Brynjolf said defensively.

Later, much later, after he’d told the tale with Quaranir recording it in one of the Psijics’ memory-crystals and Urag taking notes for the Ysmir Collective, they’d retired to the Arch-Mage’s quarters for some time alone. When _that_ was done, Laina watched Brynjolf sit up and rest his face in his hands.

“When the crisis is over, the exhaustion gets you,” she said, sitting up to embrace him, resting her chin on his shoulder. “All that you repressed during the event hits you in the aftermath of the wave’s passing.”

“Aye, lass,” he agreed wearily. “How do you cope?”

“Let it swamp you for a few days,” she advised softly. “You’ve spent the last six months going from Day Master of a dying Guild who’d been betrayed by the man responsible for its ruin to a hero who’s travelled to Sovngarde and almost singlehandedly saved the world. From Thief to Jarl’s a big change in your stars and your life.”

He laughed a little. “I swiped a golden platter from the Hall of Valour. It’s in my pack.”

“Nothing wrong with grabbing a souvenir,” Laina said lightly.

He laughed again, then grew sombre. “Now there’s talk of vampire attacks-“

“I gave Egil Dawnbreaker. He and Meridia will get on marvellously,” she interrupted. “It’s his and Isran and Irkand’s problem. We’ve done our part for now.”

Brynjolf nodded. “I suppose so, lass. Did you tell him?”

“No. He wouldn’t understand. Maybe one day.” Laina sighed and snuggled closer. “Neither would Irkand. My past’s rather well buried and I think I prefer it that way.”

“Aye. Did you know the head of the Greybeards is your great-grandda?”

“I’m unsurprised. At least he did something constructive with his life.” Laina twined her fingers in his long auburn hair. “Now shut up and give me another kiss. We’ve been apart for far too long.”

He did so and for this moment in time, all was right in the world.

…

Laina was asleep when Brynjolf stole from the bed, pulled on a pair of breeks and wandered into the greater part of the quarters. He’d be glad when the Jarl’s longhouse was built because having a tree smack-bang in the middle of his bedroom was a bit creepy.

Eyes long experienced from perceiving shape in the shadow caught the thin hand, ash-grey and night-black, snaking towards the glowing magenta gem that hovered in a red-gold case. “You could just ask, lass,” he said with a soft laugh. “Laina would let you take it.”

Karliah shamelessly grabbed the odd trinket and stuck it in a pouch. “It’s a Gem of Barenziah. For the blessing of Mephala that clings to it, each gem must be stolen.”

“I’ll give you a couple hours’ head-start then,” he said grinningly.

Karliah smiled and it was less wistful than before. Her violet eyes were brighter and in the dim light cast by the moon through the skylight, he could see less shadows under them. “You look well.”

“For a lad who went to Sovngarde and came back? I suppose I do.” Brynjolf folded his arms, studying the Nightingale. “How’s the Guild?”

“Prosperous. We’re getting so many jobs we’ve had to turn down a few. The Brotherhood’s refurbishing several Sanctuaries after Mede’s death and paying us handsomely to do it.” Karliah canted her head to the side. “It isn’t the same without you.”

“I miss it sometimes too,” he admitted. “But… that life doesn’t fit me anymore. Not because I’ve turned over a new leaf or something but because I’ve seen things that few, if any, in the Guild could appreciate. I think I might get to like being a Jarl. Politics is a lot like conning someone, only less honest.”

“Gallus might have understood some of it,” Karliah observed softly. “But… be honest, Bryn. Most of it has been because of Laina.”

“We both know that Nord honour’s a load of codswallop,” Brynjolf mused as he leaned against the wall. “It’s a pretty façade that allows the lowlander bastards to raid and bash and take what they want. Thieves are just more honest about it.”

“No shit,” Karliah said dryly.

“But sometimes, you meet someone who actually lives up to it,” he continued. “Laina could have left me at Snow Veil Sanctum after you…” He chose his next words carefully. “Went ahead. But she carried me to Winterhold. Not because she knew I was the Dragonborn. But because she’d promised to help. Oh aye, she charged for it, but… she kept her end of the bargain, full and fair.”

“Laina’s a rare creature,” Karliah conceded. “Are you saying that her honour convinced you to leave the Guild?”

“Gods, no!” Brynjolf answered fervently. “I think Laina wouldn’t have given a damn what I did for a living, so long as it didn’t affect the College.”

“Which is reasonable enough.”

“Aye but…” He sighed. “I kept on being dragged into other people’s problems from the Pale to Haafingar. Sometimes the reward wasn’t worth the effort. But bit by bit, I saw Laina stare down vampires and bandits and even a couple Daedric Princes. Not because it was profitable, though oftentimes it was, or because it built up the reputation of the College, which it did. But because she’d suffered through the indifference and cruelty of others and chose to take a stand to prevent others from what she’d gone through.”

“Altruism, Brynjolf?” Karliah sounded amused.

“Is that the word? All I knew when I saw Stormcloaks ravaging my homeland and then the Old Holds was that I had the power to make sure another Karthwasten never happened again. Someone once told mortals we count the dead but the gods count the living.” He tilted his head. “I was able to stop Maven murdering and exploiting others as she pleased. I saved hundreds of lives in the civil war by knocking Stormcloaks on their arses with the Thu’um. I saved millions by defeating Alduin.”

“I don’t understand,” Karliah confessed.

“I don’t expect you too.” He flashed a grin. “Don’t worry, lass. I’m not about to turn into a Temple-going good little citizen. I still think lowlanders are full of shit and hypocritical to boot.”

“Praise Nocturnal,” Karliah said fervently. “I better go. Bjarni’s wandering around Winterhold unsupervised.”

“Tell him his Da’s in Sovngarde and didn’t get eaten by Alduin,” Brynjolf said quietly. “I’ll see you around, Karliah.”

“If you do, it’s obvious I’m slipping,” she said amusedly. “Goodbye, Bryn.”

She faded into the shadows and he sighed before turning back towards the bed. Mortals counted the dead but from now on, he would tally the living and consider it a good bargain. There were things more precious than mere gold and silver. He understood that, now.


End file.
